


men weren't meant to ride (with clouds between their knees)

by angelsdemonsducks



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: (it's laf), Alex is crushing so hard rn, Alex is very stressed, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, F/F, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Nonbinary Character, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Pining, Poor Aaron Burr, Secret Identity, That's the majority of the fic, These Idiots, angelica is on fire, empath!Burr, now with, seriously settle in we're here for the long haul
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-30 19:22:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 51,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8546041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsdemonsducks/pseuds/angelsdemonsducks
Summary: Aaron has spent most of his life hiding what he is. He doesn't like it, but considering the current political climate towards people with abilities like his, it's the only option available to him. Enter Alexander Hamilton, an obnoxious, arrogant, loudmouth bother who seems intent on disturbing the fragile peace Aaron has built for himself. And that's only the beginning.





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be working on the next part of rise up, but the bunny bit and would not leave me alone, so... Hamburr superhero au, anybody?
> 
> Title from "Superman" by Five for Fighting

When he is seven, he is told that his powers are wrong.

He doesn’t understand at first. He is only seven, after all, not yet capable of comprehension of concepts such as prejudice and hate. So he asks, why is it wrong? He was born with these powers, has had them as long as he can remember, so surely there is nothing wrong with them. Nothing wrong with _him_.

It is a mistake to voice these protestations, because when he does, his grandfather bends down and gets right in his face, spitting venomous words. The powers are a sign of the devil, he insists, a symptom of evil, and if he doesn’t want to go to Hell, then he needs to stop using them and repent, because to use the powers is a terrible sin.

He still doesn’t understand. He has never used his powers to try and be bad, and he knows from listening to people talk and watching the news that he is not the only one with abilities like his. But trying to argue the point only gets him hit. So he learns to keep quiet, to not let on that he knows what the people around him are feeling at any given moment.

But he doesn’t let himself believe that it is wrong, not for a long while. Not until he is ten, and Sally tells him that it is wrong after all, that he is wrong, that he is a freak.

He bursts into tears, even though he is at an age that his grandparents insist is too old for waterworks. But he can’t help it; he has never heard such words from his sister. From his grandparents, yes, from the people they associate with, but never from Sally, who is the only person in this world that he is certain cares about him.

“Don’t you get it?” she cries. “It’s not normal, and it needs to stop! _You_ need to stop!”

He is confused. He had sensed that she was feeling sad, and he had only been trying to make her feel better, only trying to help. He never meant to hurt anyone. But he must have hurt Sally, or else she wouldn’t be angry like this.

He doesn’t want to hurt Sally.

So he agrees, even as the tears track down his face. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll stop, I promise. I won’t do it anymore.”

Sally gathers him into her arms, but the embrace feels cold, cold and hard and empty. He doesn’t _want_ to stop, not when his abilities are so much a part of him. But if Sally says it’s wrong then it has to be, right? So that night, he sets to work locking this part of himself away and throwing away the key. He puts up mental walls, strong walls, thick walls, so that he won’t be able to tell how other people are feeling and won’t be able to make them feel how he is feeling in return. It makes him feel hollow inside, but maybe this is for the best.

Because people, no matter who they are, always treat him differently when they figure out what he can do. Maybe, if he pretends that he is normal, things will be better.

He makes himself believe that through sheer force of will. He grows up and looks on as the world around him becomes a battlefield, some people fighting for equal rights for powered people and some calling for them all to be locked up or killed. He shudders when he hears of the latter, and decides that he has made the right choice after all, no matter how much it hurts to deny a part of himself. Maybe someday, the world will decide that what he is is not wrong, is not unnatural. Maybe the world will decide that it is okay for him to be who he is.

But not now, and not, he suspects, for a long time.

* * *

 

So Aaron bides his time. Aaron waits.

It is what he is best at, after all.

* * *

 

The man’s name is Alexander Hamilton, and he will not leave him alone. Aaron doesn’t know how to be rid of him, now that he has invited him for a drink. He realized within the first minute of this acquaintanceship that the man was a chatterbox, but he is coming to understand that he is not only a chatterbox, but a loud, opinionated, _passionate_ chatterbox. Essentially, someone who Aaron does not want to associate with.

He can’t find it in himself to abandon the kid, though; he is new here, new to the city, with no friends to guide him. And the _I’m an orphan, too_ , may have tugged at his heartstrings a little, may have made him empathize, though he won’t admit it. So, he gives him some advice.

“Talk less. Smile more.”

Hamilton does not take well to that.

“How can you stand aside when there is so much injustice in the world?” he rails. “How can you possibly do nothing?”

“Easily,” Aaron answers. “I am not going to rage against something that won’t be changed. I value my own life and career too much for that.”

He can tell that Hamilton is more than a little disgusted by that. And… that stings, just a bit. For a moment, he considers telling the man how much he wants to speak out, how much he wants to be himself in a world that will not allow him to be. He wants to tell him about every opinion he has never voiced, every plan that he has never enacted.

But that would be lunacy. He shakes the thought aside.

He is almost relieved when they come across Laurens and his friends, Mulligan and Lafayette. Birds of a feather, them, and he is almost certain that Mulligan, at least, has some sort of power. On a few occasions, he has considered revealing his secret to them, but he has always discarded the idea. He is friendly enough with them, but they are not _friends_ , and everything always goes wrong when he tries to tell somebody what he is.

Hamilton hits it off with them immediately. Aaron nods, satisfied, a job well done, and goes off to a quiet corner to have a drink in peace.

But they don’t leave him alone. He tries to ignore them, but Hamilton is insistent on bringing him back into the conversation.

“I’m sorry?” he says, clamping down on the urge to snap at him.

“I _said_ , what are your opinions on those self-proclaimed superheroes that have been popping up? Or powers in general?”

The question sends an icy wave of fear down Aaron’s spine. Hamilton can’t know, there’s no way that he can know, but still, the words hit uncomfortably close to home. _I am the one thing in life I can control,_ he reminds himself, and forces his voice to stay steady.

“I’m with you,” he says, “but frankly, I don’t see what you’re going to be able to do about anything. You carry on this way and it’ll get you killed.”

He can tell that in Hamilton’s eyes, it is the wrong answer.

“Goddamnit, Burr,” he snarls. “Really? That’s all you have to say?”

 _No. It never is. But it’s all I_ can _say._

“If you stand for nothing, Burr, what’ll you fall for?” he continues, and Aaron has had enough. He leaves the bar without replying, turning his back to the boos and jeers of Hamilton’s newfound friends. He almost regrets bringing him here.

Almost.

 _It’s not like he ever would have been friends with you anyway,_ he tells himself. _You’re too different. Honestly, Aaron, what were you hoping for?_

He puts all thoughts of Hamilton out of his mind. After all, it’s a large city. They’re not likely to run into each other again.

* * *

 

One week later, Aaron walks into work to find Hamilton and Jefferson in the middle of a screaming match. According to Madison, who is standing off to the side looking incredibly _done_ with both parties, Washington was impressed by his brilliant writing and mind and hired him practically on the spot.

And that is how Alexander Hamilton begins his work as a lawyer at Washington & Associates. And proceeds to drive Aaron up the goddamn wall.

* * *

 

“He just doesn’t _stop_ ,” he moans, allowing his head to bang against the table. There is no one here to see his exasperation, after all, or at least, no one who he minds seeing. Theo watches him with pity in her eyes, though an amused smile hovers around her mouth.

“He doesn’t seem that bad,” she says, and she is definitely laughing at him. He can hear it in her voice. He brings his head back up again for the express purpose of glaring at her.

“Not that bad?” he demands. “Last week, he called me his assistant counsel instead of his co-counsel. In front of the entire goddamn court! What part of that is not bad?”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

Aaron can’t reply to that, since he knows that Hamilton really didn’t mean to do it. He had been apologetic afterward, telling him that it had just slipped out in his excitement and that it wouldn’t happen again. Aaron had been irritated, of course, but for some reason, it is difficult for him to stay truly angry at the man. He shrugs. “That doesn’t change any of his other bad habits,” he says. “He works at all hours of the day. I’m not even sure he sleeps.” The deep, dark bags under his eyes certainly seem to suggest he doesn’t.

Theo laughs. “Everyone sleeps. Speaking of which, how are you doing? Are you taking care of yourself?” she asks, her gaze going sharp. Aaron sighs. Theo has always been able to see right through him.

“I’m having headaches again,” he admits, and hates the way her eyes go wide with worry. “Other than that, I’m completely fine. How is your latest protest going?” he hastens to tack on. The subject change is obvious, and she narrows her eyes at him. But she seems content to go where he leads, so long as he doesn’t give her reason to be suspicious. Something for which he is grateful; Theo is the only living person (besides Sally, who he hasn’t spoken to in years) who knows anything about his powers, and he considers her his closest friend, even after their romantic relationship ended in near disaster. But while she has always understood him, he does not want to talk about himself and his problems right now. Nor does he want to talk about Hamilton, Hamilton who is constantly bothering him and pressing him to say what he believes, Hamilton who refuses to leave him alone even when Aaron knows he has other things to be doing, Hamilton who, despite the words Aaron always throws at him, stays.

So he and Theo talk about other things, from the latest protest she is busy organizing to the new self-proclaimed ‘supervillain’ in town and the ‘superhero’ that has shown up to stop him. And Aaron pretends that he is fine.

He doesn’t know how to do anything different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come shortly, I think. In the meantime, I hope you're enjoying! Drop a review if you want, or come talk to me on my [tumblr](http://angelsanddemonsandducks.tumblr.com/) ! :)


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alex has a lot of shit going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for slight past suicidal ideation this chapter. It's nothing major, but it's there, so if you think it'll trigger you, it's in the flashback between the first and second linebreaks.

Alex walks home from work furious.

Not that this is anything new, since the universe has seen fit to give him a job in which he is surrounded by assholes.

Well, that’s not completely fair. Washington is pretty cool. And Madison’s a decent guy, when he’s not hanging around Jefferson… and there’s the problem. Thomas motherfucking _Jefferson_. That bastard. He fights with him on anything and everything, at the drop of a hat. Alex has no idea what he did to offend him so badly, but he seems determined to step on his toes with every opportunity he gets. Alex is convinced that he doesn’t even actually believe in half the things he argues for; Laf is friends with him, after all, and there’s no way that Laf would be friends with someone who actually thinks that immigrants are dragging the economy down. No, Jefferson just seems to like antagonizing him, though he has to admit, it’s an enjoyment that goes both ways.

And then there’s Burr. Aaron Burr, who he still doesn’t understand, even after eight months of working in the same building as him, in the office literally right next to his. Burr, who he _knows_ has opinions of his own, who he _knows_ has beliefs, has a moral code, but who still refuses to stand up for anything. Who refuses to admit to having faith in anything, despite Alex needling him for months.

Who is still heartbreakingly gorgeous, despite all of that. Alex hates it.

“Damn him,” he mutters, and several people jump out of his path as he stalks down the sidewalk. “Damn them all. Fuck.”

His phone begins to buzz in his pocket, and he fishes it out with a glare. He accepts the incoming call without looking at who it’s from. “What?” he snaps.

There is silence on the other end of the line for a moment. “Jeez, who died?” John asks, and Alex relaxes.

“Sorry,” he says. “Rough day.”

John laughs. “Tell me about it. I swear to god, one more pretentious asshole comes in and spouts off an over-complicated order today, I’m going to kill someone, and then you’ll have to defend me.”

“You kill anyone and I’m sticking you with Burr.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

John laughs again, and the sound is like a breath of fresh air. “He still bothering you?” he asks, and Alex sighs.

“He’s irritating,” he agrees. _Irritatingly attractive._ “Plus, Jefferson was being a dick. The usual, y’know?”

John hums in agreement. “You ever wonder how they would react if they knew?” he asks, and Alex looks around furtively. There is no one close enough to eavesdrop, and the question was vague enough that no one would understand its true meaning even if they did overhear, but old habits die hard, and Alex can’t afford anyone finding out this secret. Not yet, anyway.

“All the time,” he admits. “The looks on their faces would be priceless.”

“Make sure you have a camera on you when they figure it out,” John agrees, then pauses. “So, we going out tonight?”

“Yeah,” Alex replies. “I want to try to be out there a little earlier than usual, what with the… increased activity, lately.”

“Roger that,” John says, though Alex catches something odd in his tone. Resignation? Whatever it is, it puts him on edge. “Herc and I will be at yours in an hour. Sound good?”

Alex smiles, though he knows John can’t see him. “Yeah. Thanks.” And he hangs up, shoving both hands into his pockets as he walks down the street in considerably better humor than before. Though, that’s not saying much, considering the dour mood he was in. But now he knows that he has his home and friends to look forward to, and after that…

Well, after that, he’s hitting the streets as Hurricane, New York’s newest, and currently only public superhero.

* * *

 

When he is seventeen, a hurricane strikes the island.

He had seen his fair share of tragedy before that, of course. His mother died holding him, he found his cousin hanging from the ceiling fan, his brother abandoned him just like their father did. He had to fight tooth and nail for everything he has, and he has had to fight doubly hard to keep it. The world is not a kind place for a bastard orphan like him.

But he doesn’t give up. He refuses with an obstinacy he knows comes from his mother. He will not allow the world in all its cruelty to defeat him.

Then, the storm hits, and everything changes.

Afterwards, he doesn’t remember much of the storm itself, only brief flashes and imprints of mostly forgotten nightmares dancing on the back of his eyelids. But he remembers how the sky turned piss-yellow, how the wind ripped at him until he was sure he would blow away with everything else, how the water rose until the churning grey depths were all he could see. And he remembers the aftermath all too well, remembers wandering the skeleton of the town in a daze, half-dead and yet unable to die. He remembers the bodies, broken, bleeding husks and shells.

And he remembers the ones who weren’t yet dead, the ones who laid on the wet ground, crying and moaning and begging for someone, anyone to have mercy on them.

_Death is the only mercy you will find,_ he thinks numbly. _Death is the only mercy any of us will find._ And it is a mercy that continues to escape him. He has no right to continue living, he thinks, not when so many have died, and there are times when he considers ending it himself, finding peace in the blade of a razor or at the edge of a rooftop. But then he remembers how he felt when he found his cousin dangling from a rope, and he realizes he can’t inflict that on anyone else.

Besides, it would be a waste of the efforts of everyone around him, everyone who has given so much to get him this far. So, Alex lives, Alex continues.

And Alex sits down, picks up a pencil, and writes his own deliverance.

It is when the word comes back that he realizes something is wrong with him. It is when he hears that he has won a scholarship, that he can go to college if he can get himself to America, that he finds out what happened.

It is when the winds rise around him, when ozone crackles in the air and waves lap around his feet in cadence to the excited pounding of his heart, that he realizes that the hurricane never left the island at all.

Perhaps the hurricane gave him the powers. Perhaps it simply activated the capabilities that already laid dormant within him. Whatever the case, he is now a literal force of nature, and he feels a strange mixture of awe, fear, and loathing.

The islanders can’t get him to leave fast enough.

So he goes. Goes to New York, goes to college. Makes friends, makes enemies. Learns how to keep enough of a handle on his powers that he doesn’t start knocking things over whenever he feels emotional. It gets to the point where no one ever guesses that he has powers at all, not unless he tells them, and that leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Hiding a part of his nature has never been who he is. But he is not doing this for his own safety, he tells himself. Not like some who hide their abilities, fearful of the political climate and those who would gladly see anyone more than normal dead. He keeps his powers to himself to keep others safe, because if he unleashed his powers on the populace, people would get hurt, and people would die.

He remembers the yellow sky.

Then, he meets Burr, who introduces him to his real friends. Herc, who could bench press a house and yet crafts clothes with delicacy and care, never losing control over his strength. Laf, who has visions of the future vividly and frequently, who has kept this fact even from their own father. And John, who doesn’t have any powers but is no less supportive because of that, who is an anchor in a deep sea, the port in the storm.

For the first time in so many years, Hamilton feels like he is home.

So, when a crazed new villain rises and begins to call himself the Monarch, when this new player in town starts causing destruction and mayhem and kills seemingly at random, Alex calls his friends and tells them, in no uncertain words, that he is going to do something about this.

And his friends, because they are his friends, agree wholeheartedly, and Hurricane is born.

* * *

 

The night is dark, the winds calm. Alex stands on the edge of a rooftop, watching the movement in the city below him. One step, just one small step, and he would fall. Not that he would land, of course; the wind would pick him up and take him where he wants to go. Flying isn’t something he particularly enjoys, but it is a useful skill to have, and one he has utilized ever since he gained enough control over his powers to do so.

He places a hand on his comm. “You guys read me?” he asks, even though he knows the communicator is functioning just fine.

He hears John’s laugh. “Still working, Ham,” he says, his voice coming through crackly. “Just like the last seven times you asked.”

“And the scanners all look fine too,” Herc adds. “Nothing the police aren’t handling just fine.”

Alex relaxes, but only fractionally; he cannot afford to be caught off his guard, not when the Monarch could appear at any moment. But he is glad to have his friends supporting him. Without them, he doesn’t know what he would do.

They’d wanted to come with him, in the beginning, when he’d first started to patrol the streets at night. But he had refused their help vehemently. Laf’s visions would be of no help in a fight. John doesn’t have powers at all. Herc’ll come out with him from time to time, not one to take no for an answer, but the thing is, his augmented strength doesn’t block bullets or keep bones from breaking. Right now, he’s down with a couple of bruised ribs, and Alex can’t let him run around in that condition. Which is pissing Herc off, but it’s worth it.

He is willing to sacrifice many things to protect this city. He is not willing to sacrifice those he loves.

So they caved to his demands eventually, after a long, heated argument. But they refused to stay out of it completely despite Alex’s protests. Herc patrols with him when he can, after promising to be careful with a roll of his eyes, and John and Laf ended up being his tech support, telling him where to go and how to get there, and stopping him from doing things that are too stupid.

He has never been more grateful for them.

He sighs and sits on the edge of the rooftop, allowing his legs to dangle over the edge of the building. There is a freedom in this, in being this close to empty air, in having a bird’s eye view over the city he loves. Anyone who chanced to look up and see him would probably be concerned, but that never happens. People never look up, and his clothes are dark enough to blend in with the night sky. A dark green jacket, dark pants, a black mask and hood covering his face-- he’d wanted to wear a brighter green, but his friends talked him out of it. He has to admit, this outfit is more practical than the one he’d envisioned, and it’s certainly more practical than the costumes heroes don in the comics.

Though he’s fairly sure he could make the spandex look good.

The point of his outfit isn’t the aesthetic, though, as his friends have told him so many times. Its purpose is to disguise his identity. And it serves that purpose well; no one can see his face or hair, and he even has a voice modulator that Herc found… somewhere. Frankly, he doesn’t want to know. Plausible deniability.

“Holy shit.” Herc’s shocked whisper brings Alex crashing out of his thoughts.

“What? What is it?” he demands, scrambling to his feet.

Herc lists off a rapid-fire stream of directions as John says, “Police are on the scene already, so stay out of sight. But this sounds like it might be-”

_No._

Alex doesn’t wait for him to finish his sentence before he is in motion, jumping off the building and letting the wind carry him across the city. He summons as much as he dares, urging himself to go faster, faster, faster. Even as he flies, dread fills him, some part of him knowing what he is going to find.

He lands quietly on a fire escape and takes in the scene.

An alley, dark, gritty. Police lights flashing bright blue, the police themselves talking in horrified tones. Blood splattered across pavement and walls. The bodies sprawled against a garbage bin, faces fixed in agony and terror. A father. A mother. Two small children, a boy and a girl. Their clothes bloodied and torn, their eyes blank, tear tracks dried on their faces. The message crudely printed on the wall above them in blood: _To remind you of my love._ No signature, but a messy depiction of a crown below the words.

This is the third scene like this that Alex has seen in the past two months. The third time that he was too late to stop it, too late to save these people’s lives. The third time this has happened, seemingly just to get at _him._ Alex takes off just as soundlessly as he arrived, ignoring John and Herc’s inquiries ringing in his ears.

_To remind you of my love._

He doesn’t make it far before he collapses on a rooftop, heaving what little dinner he’d eaten that night.

_To remind you of my love._

The Monarch has struck again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins. Sorry, cheesy superhero names are cheesy.
> 
> (I'm sure some of you noticed the... lack of Laf, this chapter. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten them, I have... how you say, plans... *evil grin*)
> 
> Thank you all so much for the kudos and reviews, they really mean a lot to me. I don't usually reply to reviews here since I'm an awkward bean, but I read and value and squee over each and every one, and if you want to chat or cry about dead founding fathers, my [tumblr](http://angelsanddemonsandducks.tumblr.com/) is always open! :)


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an argument, and being Aaron Burr is suffering.

“...and this seems to be the latest in the recent stream of homicides committed by the self-proclaimed supervillain ‘Monarch’, though the person to whom the message is directed remains unknown. Some speculate that the communication is directed toward the victims or an unknown third party, but most experts seem to be of the opinion that it is meant for Hurricane, the vigilante who has declared himself the Monarch’s enemy and has confronted him in several battles in the past few months. For those just tuning in-”

Aaron turns off the news report, frowning at his coffee maker as it buzzes. Hurricane and Monarch have been dominating the news lately, and this recent murder is not going to help matters. He wishes they would both just disappear; it is people like them that make the general public so afraid of those with powers, that make the public want them gone.

But that wish is just that: a wish. These two don’t seem to be going anywhere, and likely won’t until one or the other is defeated. And even then it might not be over, depending on who emerges the victor. 

He doesn’t want to think about the consequences should the Monarch win. At least Hurricane seems to be trying to do the right thing.

He goes about his morning routine mechanically. Finish cup of coffee number one, start preparing cup of coffee number two. Get dressed, make sure socks are matching and that his tie isn’t one of the ridiculous ones Theo keeps giving him. Eat breakfast, drink down cup of coffee number two. Grab briefcase, go over its contents to make sure he isn’t forgetting anything, head out the door. Tighten his mental shields-- the more people there are, the harder it is to keep their emotions out of his head, but  _ I am the one thing in life I can control _ , he thinks, and it works well enough-- and respond to Theo’s latest text. Take the thirty minute walk to the firm.

The moment he steps into the door, he realizes that something is wrong. It is quiet, far too quiet. There is usually some sort of argument going on at this time of the morning; how could there not be, when Alexander Hamilton works here? But all is still, though there is tension obvious in the air and in the way the clerks and paralegals are moving around with their heads down and shoulders hunched, as if they fear someone is about to take a bite out of them.

Maybe someone is. There is still no sign of Hamilton.

Ah, there. Not Hamilton, but maybe just as good of an information source. Aaron crosses the room to stand next to a particularly disgruntled-looking Thomas Jefferson. “Normally you’re involved in some kind of argument at this time of the morning,” he says, leaving the question unspoken. Jefferson barely spares him a glance, continuing to glare off into space. “Seriously, what did he say this time?” he presses, because honestly, only Hamilton is capable of getting Jefferson riled up like this. It is a strange pseudo-friendship that goes on between them, and Aaron really does not want to know the particulars of how that works. But he hasn’t seen Jefferson this stone-faced in a long time.

“Nothing, actually,” someone says, and Aaron turns to meet Madison’s steady gaze. He resists the urge to flinch; something about this man, with his calm demeanor and constant illness, unnerves him, but he’s never been able to put a finger on it. “Hamilton hasn’t spoken to him yet this morning. Or any of us, for that matter.”

And that,  _ that _ is enough to set alarm bells ringing. Because Hamilton never stops talking. For anything. He doesn’t  _ do  _ the silent treatment, not even if he’s furious. No, if Hamilton is displeased with someone, he lets them know. Verbosely. He is the reason John Adams resigned in hysterics.

His silence means that something is wrong. Terribly wrong.

He leaves Madison and Jefferson in each other’s company and heads upstairs to his office. He only remains in there for a few moments, however, enough time to put his briefcase down and walk right out again. Hamilton’s office is down the hall from him, only a few meters away, and as much as he wants to leave Hamilton to stew, he also wants to know what is the matter with him, and what he can do to  _ help _ . He doesn’t quite know what to make of this worry about his coworker, but he does know that a quiet Hamilton isn’t Hamilton at all, and it makes him uncomfortable.

He pauses outside the office door for a moment before announcing his presence, listening to the familiar, incessant clack of Hamilton’s fingers on the keys of his laptop. Then, he knocks three times, and the clacking stops. A moment passes, then another, and another. Aaron begins to think that Hamilton is going to ignore him too, but then, he speaks up. “Come in,” he says, and his voice is hoarse, weary, resigned.

Aaron doesn’t like it.

He opens the door slowly, allowing the other man to change his mind if he wants, to send him away. Though, he’s not sure he would actually go if he was told to. Hamilton glances up from his laptop when he enters, and the first thing Aaron notes is the dark circles under his eyes.  _ Someone didn’t get any sleep last night _ , he thinks. Not that that’s anything new; he knows for a fact that Hamilton rarely goes to bed before the small hours of the morning, and never before midnight. But something is different today, he thinks. Hamilton is almost folded in on himself, his shoulders slumped and his brow creased. He looks… small.

“Is your case not going well?” Aaron asks, for lack of any other ideas. He is not surprised when Hamilton denies this; not only does Hamilton always win his cases, but even if he didn’t, difficulties with work would not be enough to make him this despondent. But he is surprised when Hamilton doesn’t elaborate. Usually, the man jumps on any invitation to talk about anything.

Aaron’s unease grows.

He pulls up a chair and sits in front of Hamilton’s desk, frowning when he starts to type again. “Hamilton, what’s wrong?” he asks.

The typing intensifies, Hamilton pressing down on each key as if it has personally wronged him. “Nothing,” he bites out. “I’m fine.”

Aaron raises an eyebrow. “Clearly,” he says.

Hamilton doesn’t respond. 

He sighs. “Look, Hamilton, you haven’t said anything all morning.  _ Jefferson’s _ noticed, if that tells you anything. You’re never this quiet.”

Hamilton stops typing again and looks up, the ferocity of his glare taking him aback. “I would’ve thought you’d like that,” he spits out. “Aren’t you always telling me to talk less?”

Something in his stomach curdles, unpleasant, unwelcome, sour. “That can’t be what this is about,” he replies, though the certainty in his voice does not match how he feels. He couldn’t have done this… right? Hamilton has always taken that particular piece of advice with relatively good humor, brushing it off with a laugh and then resolutely not following it. 

No, this isn’t his fault. Hamilton is trying to distract him.

“Hamilton,” he presses, “what’s-”

“Will you just leave it?” Hamilton snaps. “I’m not in the mood for this, Burr. Fuck off.”

And that? That smarts. Here he is, trying to reach out, trying to help when scorn is the only thing Hamilton has ever offered him. Apparently, this olive branch is too much for him to handle. “Fine,” he snaps back. “I’ll leave you to brood. Get the fuck over yourself.” And he leaves, unable to stomach being in the room with him for another second. He slams the door behind him.

The door knob gives him a nasty electric shock when he lets go of it, but he thinks nothing of it.

* * *

 

He spends the rest of the day working his current case, a fairly clear-cut one. The prosecution doesn’t have any more than circumstantial evidence to prove his client committed murder, and frankly, he doesn’t think that they’ll be able to find anything better. He’ll have her acquitted within the week.

He doesn’t leave the office, not even for lunch, unwilling to risk running into Hamilton again. Perhaps he shouldn’t have snapped at him the way he did, but to be fair, Hamilton antagonized him first. There is no one who is better at getting under his skin than Hamilton. He doesn’t feel like another confrontation, not right now. He’s had enough of that for one day.

So he secludes himself, not coming out for anything. And even now, with a headache raging behind his temple and a complete inability to focus on his case, he doesn’t leave. He won’t give in so easily, despite common sense telling him that if this is anything like the migraines he usually gets, he should pack up and go home while he can still see straight. No, he manages to keep plodding along, though he suspects he’ll come in tomorrow to find that all the work he did today is completely nonsensical.

Then, there is a knock on the door. Aaron flinches as the sound reverberates inside his skull. “Yes?” he calls, and the door opens. Hamilton stands on the other side, shifting his feet, wearing a hesitant expression that doesn’t suit him.

“Uh, hi,” he says, and no, Aaron really, really does not want to deal with this right now.

“What,” he grits out, hoping he gets the point across. To his satisfaction, Hamilton winces.

“Uh, look, it has been brought to my attention that I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that earlier?” he says, the statement coming out like a question. “So, uh… jeez, Burr, you look like shit. Are you okay?”

He glares. “Is this supposed to be an apology?” he asks.

“No, well, actually, yeah, a little bit,” Hamilton replies, his eyebrows scrunching together. “But, um, seriously, Burr, I think you should go home?”

This entire interaction only makes his head pound harder, and he narrows his eyes. “I’m  _ fine _ ,” he insists, and oh, isn’t this ironic? Their positions from this morning have been completely reversed, and he decides that Hamilton deserves a taste of his own medicine. Or, in this case, his own foolish, irritating stubbornness. Even though he’s beginning to think that he may be right.

“Are you sure, ‘cos I think maybe-”

He shakes his head, ignoring the way the motion makes him feel nauseous. Hamilton still appears unconvinced, so he stands to make his point, but oh god, the floor should not be spinning like that, and he lurches to the side, and well, there goes his balance and his head is  _ killing _ him and-

Strong hands catch him, steady him, force him to sit. He wrenches his mind back into focus with no small effort, unable to ignore what feels like a dozen elephants rampaging through his brain. Hamilton’s eyes are wide, wide and concerned and very pretty, and no, not doing that. “I’m-” he tries, but Hamilton doesn’t let him finish. 

“You’re not fine. Don’t try and argue with me. I’m taking you home.” He pauses. “Stay there a moment.” And he rushes from the room, whipping out his phone as he goes. Aaron is only able to watch, drained of the energy to do anything else. Hamilton returns before he can muster up any amount of strength.

“I told Washington that you’re not feeling well and I’m taking you home. John’ll be here with his car in, like, five minutes.”

Aaron frowns. There is… so much wrong with that statement that he doesn’t know where to begin. He knows Hamilton doesn’t have a car, of course-- he’s not even sure the man can drive at all-- but why would Laurens bother to come? It must just be because Hamilton asked him to; it’s not like he and Laurens have ever been friends. And as for Washington… well, Washington has never liked him. He’s known that since he first started there.

Hamilton looks startled. “Washington likes you just fine,” he says, and oops. He must have said that last part out loud. He’s more out of it than he thought he was.

It has been a long time since he’s suffered a headache  _ this _ bad. The last time was when he was still dating Theo, he thinks, and she helped him through the worst of it. And then promptly insisted he go see a doctor. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he has. Many times. None of them have ever been able to figure out why he gets the headaches in the first place, much less how to make them stop. Medication barely takes the edge off.

“Okay, hey, Burr. Aaron. You good to stand up?” Hamilton’s voice brings him back to the present, and he nods. He doesn’t make the same mistake as last time, rising slowly to give his head time to acclimate. The floor still spins under his feet, but Hamilton places a hand on his shoulder as he sways, and he does not fall.

He likes the way his first name sounds in Hamilton’s voice, he realizes belatedly.

Hamilton guides him down the hallway and into the elevator. He groans when it starts up, the movement and humming not helping matters at all. “Is it your head?” Hamilton asks, though softly, thank god for small miracles. He manages a nod. “Okay, do you have something you can take for it?” Hamilton continues, and he shrugs.

“Tylenol at home,” he says, and wow, alright, Hamilton doesn’t seem to be very happy with that.

“Is this something that happens often?” he demands. “I mean, you don’t have anything better than Tylenol, really?”

He stifles a yelp as the elevator lurches to a stop and the pain spikes. “You sound like Theo,” he mutters, shuffling out when the doors open. Hamilton keeps pace with him, laying a steadying hand on his arm.

“I don’t know who that is, but I’m taking that as a yes,” he says. “How come I’ve never noticed before?”

They cross the lobby together, and Aaron pretends he doesn’t notice the pitying stares on his back. “It usually doesn’t get this bad,” he says, and then they are stepping outside, outside into the bright afternoon sunlight that feels like a railroad spike being driven into his skull. He gasps and staggers, blinking rapidly, hands flying up to his head. Hamilton catches him, taking most of his weight.

“Easy,” he says. “Easy, easy. I’ve got you, Aaron. See, there’s John now.”

There it is. Aaron again, Aaron instead of Burr. He really, really likes that, though for the life of him, he can’t figure out why. He huffs out a laugh, and then…

And then, something slips. Only for a moment, but it is enough. His shields slacken for some reason; perhaps it is the headache, perhaps it is this strange, easy camaraderie that has somehow cropped up between the two of them. Whatever the reason, they go down for a brief second, and Aaron is slammed, slammed with Hamilton’s worry, his affection, and an underlying tone of something darker that Aaron can’t name, doesn’t want to name. He feels the emotions as if they are his own, keenly, sharply, and his headache abates.

Then, he realizes what is happening. Panics. Jerks away from Hamilton’s grip, ignoring his frantic questions. Slams his mental walls up as hard as he can.  _ I am the one thing in life I can control.  _ The emotions,  _ Hamilton’s _ emotions go away, but the headache returns in full force, stronger than before. His vision swirls and tips, black spots dancing in front of his eyes, and he goes down hard, his hands and knees slapping roughly against the hot pavement. Hamilton is crouched by his side in an instant, one hand on his arm and the other rubbing circles into his back, but he barely registers his presence. His stomach lurches, and its meager contents-- what is left of his breakfast, since he skipped lunch-- are hurled onto the pavement.

“Aaron! Hey, you with me? Aaron!”

_ Yes _ , he decides,  _ I like that. Aaron. You should call me that more often. _

And everything goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaron, you're having feelings.
> 
> So the whole headache thing wasn't originally in the plans, but the idea came and I can't resist things that'll put my characters through pain... so... yeah, that's a thing.
> 
> Come chat on [tumblr](http://angelsanddemonsandducks.tumblr.com/)! :)


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alex does not listen to his friends' advice and then things happen as a result.

To his credit, Alex only panics a little bit.

“Shit,” he says. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” Burr slumps against him, and he bites his lip, because he has no idea what to do here, what does he-

“Holy shit, Alex, what happened?”

Oh, right, that’s John running up to them, John whose car just pulled up. John might know what to do. “He said his head was hurting,” he manages as his friend comes to a stop in front of them. “And then he…” He trails off with a hand motion. “Well. And he said that this is something that happens a lot.” _And somehow, in the eight months that I’ve known him, I’ve never noticed. How can that be possible?_ He doesn’t particularly want to think about that, nor does he want to think about the confused look that appeared on his face when Alex told him he was taking him home.

_“Washington doesn’t like me,”_ he’d muttered, and he sounded so desolate that Alex wanted to wrap him in a hug right then and there. But he didn’t, if only because he’s fairly certain that Burr doesn’t actually like him, and that in all probability, he was still mad at him for this morning. He really didn’t mean to snap at him like that, but last night’s murders, the murders that he didn’t stop, were still fresh in his mind, and he didn’t want to have to deal with talking to anybody. Burr was just the first person to press him on it, making him a convenient target for his anger.

“Okay, Alex, I need you to help me get him in the car,” John says, pulling him back to the present. “You think he should go to the hospital?”

Something in Alex balks at that. A large part of him associates hospitals with death, and more recently with- “No,” he says, “no hospitals. Not unless we know it’s really serious. He said that he gets headaches a lot, and I think I would notice if he ever went to the hospital because of them.” _But then again, maybe not,_ he thinks guiltily, and then pushes the thought aside. It’s not helping anything right now.

John crouches down in front of them, nodding. “Alright. Help me with him.” Between the two of them, they manage to get Burr into the backseat; he is heavy, but not as heavy as maybe he should be for someone of his height. Alex hopes he’s eating properly. He slides in next to him, sitting him up so that he’s leaning against the window and buckling his seatbelt. John climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the car.

“Do you know where he lives?” he asks, and Alex is forced to shake his head.

“Let’s start heading toward mine,” he says. “If he wakes up, he can tell us where he lives, but I don’t want the car to aggravate his headache.”

John casts him a sidelong glance in the rearview mirror. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Um, are you sure you don’t have anything… incriminating out?”

Alex casts a glance at Burr, but he’s still out. “Everything’s put away,” he vows, and John nods, satisfied. He starts the car and pulls out into the busy streets.

A full five minutes pass before Burr begins to stir. He moans, curling in on himself, and pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. Alex’s attention is on him immediately. “Burr?” he asks. “Hey, Burr? Aaron? You with us?” Burr’s first name sounds weird coming out of his mouth, but he likes the way it tastes on his tongue. “Burr?”

Burr unfolds slightly and brings his hands down. He looks around in confusion, blinking. “Where?” he rasps.

“My car, dude,” John puts in, taking a deft right turn. “Taking you home, if you can tell us where that is. You remember what happened?”

Burr hesitates, his eyes flickering to land on Alex for a moment before he looks away, shifting in place. “Well enough,” he murmurs. “Sorry about that.” John takes another turn, and Burr gasps. He moves his hands back up to his forehead, desperately massaging his temples. His breath hitches, and Alex frowns. Undoing his seatbelt, he scoots over, placing himself so close to Burr that their legs knock against each other.

He pretends it doesn’t make his heart beat faster. Now is not the time.

“You scared me half to death,” he tells him. “Y’know, I think the fact that you sometimes get debilitating headaches should be something you tell your coworkers from now on, okay? Me, specifically.”

Burr squints and glares at him, though the expression is slightly undercut by the fact that he looks so miserable. “There is absolutely no reason for that,” he insists, his voice growing a bit stronger. “They happen, I deal with them, and there’s-” He breaks off, squeezes his eyes shut. Breathes for a moment before continuing. “Damn it. There’s nothing any doctor can do about it. Believe me, I’ve- I’ve tried.”

“Nothing?” John asks, and Burr starts, as if he’d forgotten John was there. “Hey, are we heading in the right direction for your place?”

Burr casts a cursory glance out the window. “Down about six blocks, two rights and then a left. I’ll let you know.” He goes silent again, leaning back against the seat. Alex frowns.

“Is it getting any better?” he asks.

“Better than it was. Still not good,” Burr admits.

“Anything I can do?”

He laughs, wincing. “Doubt it.”

Alex bites his lip, considering. _Maybe..._ Before he can think better of it, he reaches behind Burr and starts to rub circles into his back. Burr stiffens. “What are you doing?” he asks, and Alex pulls back.

“Sorry,” he says. “Uh, it’s just… something my mom used to do for me when I was sick. I can stop if you want.” He cuts himself off there, before he can say anything else terribly embarrassing. What was he thinking, bringing up his mom? He doesn’t talk about her with anybody, even his closest friends. Although, it could be worse; it’s not as if Burr doesn’t know he’s an orphan, considering the fact that he divulged that fact as soon as he discovered it was something they had in common, the very first time they met.

But Burr just sighs, and… is that the hint of a smile? “It’s fine,” he says, and wow, is that permission? Alex decides to take it as such and begins the motion again. If Burr seems to lean into it, then that must be his imagination.

About ten more minutes pass, John navigating through the traffic as smoothly as he can. Alex continues to massage Burr’s back, which seems to at least partially distract the man from his migraine. At length, he look up. “This is me,” he says, and John pulls over next to the apartment complex he indicated. He shrugs Alex’s hand off his back. “Thank you for the ride,” he says distantly, unemotionally. Alex frowns. “Sorry for the trouble.”

“I’m walking you up,” Alex decides. Burr scowls and opens the car door.

“That won’t be necessary,” he says, and climbs out of the car, and okay, Alex might accept that if the guy didn’t look like a strong breeze would knock him over.

“Nope!” he says cheerfully. “Need to make sure you don’t die before you get inside.” And he clambers out of the car after him, much to his apparent annoyance. “John, you good to wait a few?”

“I don’t have anywhere else to be,” John agrees, amusement in his tone. Alex isn’t sure why.

Burr sighs. “Hamilton, I’m hardly about to keel over,” he says, and Alex snorts. Seriously, does Burr not realize how hard he’s gripping the car door just to stay upright? The man is a shaking, sweating mess right now, and there is no way he is going to let him out of his sight until he is certain he is safe at home.

“Sure you’re not,” he states, and loops an arm around Burr’s shoulders, taking some of his weight. Burr seems irritated by this, but he makes no motion to push him away. Alex guides the two of them into the building. “Which way?” he asks, and Burr points him toward the elevator.

“I’m on the seventh floor,” he says once they are inside. Alex pushes the button and watches the doors slide shut with a whoosh. Burr inhales sharply as the elevator lurched into motion, and he shoots him a concerned glance. He has his eyes shut tightly, obviously in pain, but he doesn’t appear to be in danger of passing out again, thank goodness. Once was bad enough.

Today has definitely messed with his perceptions of who Burr is supposed to be. The man has always been composed, collected, polished. Infallible. Alex has never seen him sick or injured. To know that he suffers from an ailment like this is definitely throwing him for a loop.

The elevator grinds to a halt, and with a soft _ping_ , the doors open. They step out, and he looks at Burr for direction. “711,” he says, “just down the hall.” Alex nods and walks him there. It only takes a few moments, and then Burr is fishing in his pocket for his key.

Alex is reluctant to leave.

“You sure you’ll be good?” he asks. He is stalling, he knows, and he thinks Burr knows too.

“I’ll be fine after some rest,” Burr says, and he shoves his key into the lock. The door swings open with a quiet click. “Sorry for troubling you.” And before Alex can reiterate that _really, it was no problem, I just want to make sure you’re okay, please,_ Burr steps inside and closes the door behind him. Alex stays there for a moment, staring blankly at the embossed room number on white paint. Then he sighs.

“Glad I could help,” he mutters and turns away, making his way back to the ground floor. John is still waiting in the car, and he casts him a look as soon as he climbs in.

“Is this going to be a habit?” he asks, and Alex shudders.

“God, I hope not,” he replies. “Sorry, I probably should have asked, you’re not missing work or anything like that, are you?”

John laughs. “You’re lucky I like you,” he says. “No, I told Martha I needed to pick up a sick friend, and she didn’t really need me there so she gave me the rest of the day off.”

“Oh, that’s good.” A comfortable silence reigns for a few moments before John speaks up again.

“So, you and Burr?” he asks, and Alex jerks, because what? That is completely out of left field and oh god, he’s not that obvious, is he?

“What? No,” he insists. “Me and Burr? Please. He hates me.”

John makes an odd sort of choking noise. “Really? That’s not what it looked like to me,” he says, and Alex crosses his arms and leans back, refusing to say more. He’s not sure what John thought he saw, but the only reason why Burr would tolerate him like he did for the past hour is because he was in pain. Obviously. He has made his disdain for him very clear at work, after all, what with all his _talk less, smile more_ shit and his constant _will you be quiet for just one moment for god’s sake, Hamilton_.

No, any kind of relationship between the two of them is just… never going to happen. No matter how badly Alex thinks he wants it, it’s just a crush, and it will pass. And Burr doesn’t return any of his feelings, probably isn’t even gay, so there is nothing to be done except get over it.

Judging from John’s sideways glances at him, he’s not convinced, but that’s fine. The only person Alex really has to convince here is himself.

* * *

 

John and Herc try to keep him in, that night. They tell him that he’s stretching himself too thin, that he needs to take a break, that the city will still be standing in the morning even if he doesn’t go out. He puts up a proper fight, but his friends are adamant.

“We want to catch this guy as much as you do,” Herc says, a steely look in his eyes, “but you’re not gonna do anybody any good if you kill yourself trying.” John says something much along the same lines.

He argues some more, but he can tell that this might be a losing battle. That’s the thing about friends; they always want to protect you, whether you want protecting or not. It is almost enough to make him look back fondly on the days when he was alone.

Almost. Not quite.

So he acquiesces. He lets them pile on his couch and put on a movie that involves copious explosions and not much else, and they make popcorn and get it all over the floor. It’s a good night, a normal night, like the way it was before the Monarch showed up and everything went to shit. He can almost believe that it is if he closes his eyes, doesn’t see the stress lines on his friends’ faces that weren’t there before all of this started, pretends that Laf is just in the next room over rather than lying in a hospital bed, in a coma.

And when they fall asleep, he sneaks out.

Honestly, they shouldn’t have expected anything different. They couldn’t honestly have thought that he was just going to stay here and sleep or something equally inane while Monarch could be prowling the streets, looking for his next victim. While Monarch may have already killed someone else.

If someone else has been killed because Alex had a movie night with his friends, he is never going to forgive himself. Not that he’s been doing such a great job preventing deaths even when he’s been on the streets, but at least this way, he can tell himself he’s trying. He’s not just standing to the side.

The city is beautiful at night, from up in the air. When all he can see is the flashing and twinkling of lights below him, it is easy to pretend that nothing bad ever happens here.

He knows better though. He is reminded of that every single day.

He patrols the city for hours, searching for any sign of wrongdoing. It is not easy without his friends to back him up with their maps and police scanners and words of advice, but he manages, following the sounds of sirens through and above the streets. He jumps across rooftops to save his energy, only using his powers when he feels like he might not make the landing.

Exhaustion sets in somewhere between two and three in the morning. But he does not give in to it.

But no matter how long he prowls, there is no sign of the Monarch, no crime that the police do not already have well in hand before he arrives on the scene. He stops a few muggers, but that is about the extent of his crime fighting for the night.

Eventually, even he has to admit defeat, and heads for home, racing across the tops of building like the wind that pushes eagerly at his back. With luck, John and Herc won’t have woken while he was gone. He might even get an hour or two of sleep tonight, which will go a long way in hiding tonight’s escapades. He smiles behind his mask, taking another long leap across an alleyway. And then-

He trips. His foot catches on the edge of the roof, and he goes tumbling. For a moment, he is too shocked to realize what’s happened, and by the time he does, it is too late to do anything more than let out an undignified squawk. He lands hard on a fire escape, the breath knocked out of him.

For a moment, he can’t move. And then the pain comes rushing in, and he groans. It is centered in his left ankle, he thinks, and he maneuvers himself to a sitting position to look. It doesn’t look broken, but from the pain that spikes whenever he moves it, he can tell that it’s sprained at least.

So much for keeping this excursion a secret. He’ll be lucky to get home before dawn without aggravating the injury further; he’ll be able to fly, but he’ll have to be careful, since flying puts a strain on his body. It won’t be as bad as trying to walk on it, but it certainly won’t help.

Then, a light flickers on in the window of the door connected to the fire escape, and Alex knows that he is fucked. The door opens slowly, as if whoever is behind it is hesitant to open it, afraid of what they’ll find. He tries to shuffle backward into the shadows, hoping against hope that they won’t see him. No such luck. The person steps onto the fire escape, and they lock eyes with him. Alex suppresses a curse.

“Who the hell are you?” a very irritated-looking Aaron Burr demands. “And what the hell are you doing on my fire escape?” His face is twisted into a severe scowl, his eyes narrowed. He looks steadier on his feet than he was earlier today (or yesterday, he supposes, since it’s several hours past midnight now), though, so Alex supposes he must be feeling better. Good. Burr’s eyes rake across his frame and widen as he takes in the outfit. “You’re Hurricane,” he states, his voice unreadable.

“Uh, yeah,” Alex says, and thanks Herc ten times over for the voice modulator that makes his voice about ten times deeper than usual. If he plays his cards right, he might yet get out of this with his identity intact. “Hi. Sorry if I woke you.”

Burr sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I reiterate,” he says, “what are you doing on my fire escape?”

He tries for a smile, even though he knows Burr won’t be able to see it under his mask. “I fell,” he admits. “Rolled my ankle. I think it’s sprained. Sorry to bother you, I’ll be on my way.” And he struggles to his feet, yelping as he accidentally puts weight on the wrong foot.

Burr sighs, steps forward, and puts out a hand to steady him. He leans into it, surprised. “And this is the guy we’re depending on to save all our lives,” Burr mutters, and then, louder: “Come inside. I’ll wrap it for you.”

That sentence alone is almost enough to make him lose his balance. “Wait, what?” he chokes out. “Really? I mean, no, that’s alright, I wouldn’t want to impose.” Most of him is screaming to get away and get away fast, before Burr can figure it out. Because he _will_ figure it out if Alex lingers here too long; he’s a smart man, observant. Alex needs to extract himself from this situation as quickly as possible.

And then, there’s another part of him, an insidious whisper in the back of his mind that wants to take Burr up on the offer, to see what the inside of his place looks like. _To observe him in his natural habitat,_ he thinks, and has to suppress a giggle, though he knows it’s not that funny. And really, this might be the only chance he ever gets to walk (or hobble, anyway) into Burr’s home; God only knows he won’t ever be invited inside as Alex.

Burr makes the decision for him. “Superpowers or not,” he states flatly, “I can’t in good conscience let you leave knowing you’re injured. God knows what would happen if you went zipping around the city with a broken ankle.”

“Sprained,” he insists, but he lets Burr guide him inside, leaning on one of the man’s shoulders in a reverse of what happened earlier that day.

Burr’s apartment is… honestly, exactly what he would have expected: neat, clean, and organized. Nothing like his own, where his possessions are strewn about every which way, and the only remotely orderly things are his bookshelves. No, this apartment is well-taken care of, though it is obvious that it is also well-lived in. Alex smirks when he sees the well-worn, bookmarked copy of _War and Peace_ sitting on the coffee table. “A little light reading?” he jokes, gesturing toward the book and to his surprise, Burr chuckles.

“You could say that,” he replies, guiding him over to a brown leather couch. “Wait here.” He exits the room.

Alex waits, albeit impatiently, fidgeting and looking around what he assumes it the living room. As cozy as it is, as lived-in as it appears, the lack of personal objects strikes him as odd. There are only a couple of photographs in the room, one of Burr with a woman he’s never seen before and another of a boy and girl with a dour-looking older couple in the background. If the boy is Burr, then the others are probably related-- grandparents, maybe? The girl might be a sister, though he doesn’t think Burr’s ever mentioned having one.

Burr returns before too long, a first-aid kit in his hand. He sits beside him and indicates for him to lift his left leg. He does so, wincing.

“Nice first aid kit,” he says, mostly to distract himself. “You have many chances to use it?”

Burr glances at him, taking out some bandages. “I have a good friend who’s an activist,” he says, beginning to wrap the ankle with slow, methodical movements. “You’d be surprised.”

He cocks his head. “Is that her?” he asks, gesturing to the picture of Burr and the woman. Burr follows the direction of his pointing and nods.

“Yeah, Theo,” he says. “Hang on, let me get some ice.” He leaves again, presumably to the kitchen. Alex hears him clattering around in the neighboring room before returning with a bag of ice. “Keep this on it, if you can,” he instructs, “and see a doctor tomorrow. It doesn’t look that bad, but you’ll probably want a foot brace just in case.”

Alex nods, even though he knows that’s an impossibility. Keeping his identity a secret is hard enough already; he can’t do anything that would tie Hurricane to Alex Hamilton, and it would be incredibly obvious if Alex Hamilton walked into work with a foot brace tomorrow. He’ll have to grit his teeth and bear it, just like he always does, and hope it doesn’t get any worse.

John and Herc are going to kill him.

He moves to stand, keeping most of his weight on his right leg and summoning a bit of wind to help himself balance. Burr looks completely nonchalant in the face of his obvious usage of his powers, and a thought strikes him.

“You’re not scared,” he blurts out before he can think better of it. Burr looks taken aback.

“What?” he asks.

“Scared. Of me, or what I can do. Most people are at least a little nervous,” he elaborates. “Why aren’t you?”

Burr shrugs, as calm as ever. “Do I have a reason to be?” he inquires. “No offense, but you sprained your ankle falling onto my fire escape. Forgive me if I don’t find you very intimidating.”

That rings true, but Alex suspects there is more to it than that. He may not cut an intimidating figure, even dressed in all dark greens and blacks, but that doesn’t mean Burr doesn’t know the extent of his power, what he can do with it. Burr must be seeing it on the news: the way he can summon clouds to clear skies, the way he can bat aside obstacles with gusts of wind like they are nothing, the way he could topple buildings if he wanted to, if he really tried. Burr should know the extent of his power, and yet, he stands in front of him completely uncowed.

_He’s not afraid of people with powers,_ he realizes with delight. _And if that’s the case, he probably supports them!_ He’s been trying to figure out where Burr stands on this issue for months, but the man keeps avoiding giving any sort of committed answer. This might be the first time he’s managed to ascertain the man’s views on anything.

He plays things close to his chest, after all. It annoys Alex to no end, but there’s not much he can do about it.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says, ignoring the sudden furrow of Burr’s brow. “I really should be going now, though.”

Burr nods. “Of course.” He trails him outside to the fire escape. “Take care of yourself,” he tacks on. “Let’s not make a habit of this.” He looks as if he is going to say more, but when he doesn’t, Alex nods.

“Yeah,” he agrees, though his chest tightens. “I’ll do my best. Thanks for the help.”

“My pleasure.” Burr inclines his head. “Good night.”

That’s a dismissal if Alex has ever heard one, and he takes to the air, both relieved and strangely sorrowful to leave the situation behind. He’s fairly sure he made it out without compromising his identity, and he should feel glad about that, but a part of him wishes Burr had discerned who he was.

Oh, well. What’s done is done, and it won’t be happening again.

_That’s right,_ he tells himself. _No more late night fire escape adventures for you._

By the time he makes it back to his own apartment, the throbbing of his ankle has dulled to a low ache, the pain partially held back by the ice pack Burr gave him. John and Herc are still out cold when he creeps back in, something for which he is eternally grateful. He’ll have to face the music when they wake up of course. He’ll have to explain how his ankle was injured, and that will mean explaining that he went out last night after all.

But not just yet. He still has a few hours before he has to do any of that.

The sun rises over the city, and Alex sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alex is crushing so hard tbh.
> 
> Extra love to anyone who knows why Burr's apartment number is 711. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://angelsanddemonsandducks.tumblr.com/) if any of y'all want to hang out or chat or feed me prompts. :)


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hurricane stops by again, and Aaron is just a little bit oblivious.

Aaron doesn’t go back to sleep that night, too many thoughts whirling around in his head after Hurricane leaves. Frankly, how the man managed to sprain his ankle even with all of his power is beyond him.

But that’s not what unsettles him. No, what unsettles him most is how damn relaxed he felt around the man, more relaxed than he is with anyone, except maybe Theo. He invited him into his apartment for god’s sake, laughed at a quip that was only slightly funny. He told him about Theo, and he doesn’t really talk about Theo to anybody. He has never been one to share many details about himself.

And on top of that, he all but admitted that he doesn’t have a problem with powered people. That’s more than he’s admitted to almost anybody. It’s only a step away from admitting he has powers himself. Somehow, this man got him to say in twenty minutes what Alex Hamilton himself hasn’t been able to corner him on for months.

It can’t happen again. It’s too dangerous, this side of him the self-proclaimed superhero brought out. They can never meet again, and when he thinks about it, it is likely that they won’t. He will likely never have to worry about interacting with the man again.

And yet, a part of him _wants_ . Wants to see him again, wants to talk to him, wants to be himself with someone who will _let him_.

_No. Stop. You need to stop wishing for the impossible. This is how things are, and until something changes, you shouldn’t rock the boat. Rocking the boat brings consequences you don’t want._

_I am the one thing in life I can control._

But the wanting doesn’t go away, no matter how much he wills it.

* * *

 

Despite his too-early rising, Aaron greets the morning feeling a far cry better than he did yesterday. The migraine is a thing of the past, only a very slight throbbing at the base of his temples indicating that it was there in the first place. He should be fine to go into work today; he never has two headaches so quickly in a row.

The office is loud and irritating, but the noise and lights don’t make his skull buzz or stomach churn, so he considers it to be bearable. People look at him with worried, curious glances as he walks in, but he ignores them. His health is none of their business. “Hold the elevator!” he calls, and the man inside, who he quickly realizes is Thomas Jefferson, does so, raising an eyebrow.

“Wasn’t expecting to see you in today,” he drawls, smirking. “Not after the state you were in yesterday.”

He frowns. “My state is none of your concern.” He makes to push the button to his floor, only to realize that Jefferson has already done so. “I’m fine.”

Jefferson scoffs. “Right,” he says. “If you say so. I have to say, though, I’ve never seen Hamilton so panicked before.” The elevator lurches into motion, and he sends a silent wish for it to move faster.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he states, crossing his arms. Jefferson sighs.

“Really? I mean, come on. He was frantic. Carried you outside himself, you know.”

He closes his eyes. Breathes in, breathes out. _Do not assault Thomas Jefferson in an elevator,_ he tells himself. _No matter how much you may want to._ “Yes, I wasn’t so out of it that I don’t remember that,” he says, keeping his voice mild with an effort. “Anything else to add on the subject, or are you done?”

Jefferson’s smirk twists, and he raises his hands. “Alright, alright, touchy. You don’t wanna talk about it, fine.” The elevator stops with a jolt. “I’m just saying, though, I wouldn’t leave it too long, if I were you. We all know how short of an… attention span Hamilton is prone to have.”

Aaron grits his teeth and exits the elevator as soon as the door opens, holding back a groan when Jefferson gets off right behind him. He’d forgotten they work on the same floor. Thankfully, the man is silent as they walk down the hallways, in the direction of Aaron’s office and… shouting, it would seem.

_Great._

The two of them round a corner to find a familiar scene. Hamilton, gesticulating wildly with his hands, dark circles under his eyes, fury vibrating through his small frame. He is, unsurprisingly, yelling at an impassive James Madison, who is pinching the bridge of his nose, obviously resisting the urge to roll his eyes and only just succeeding.

“Well, looks like you’re not the only one who’s feeling better,” Jefferson comments, sounding annoyed, though if he listens carefully, Aaron can pick out the relief behind the sentiment. Jefferson and Hamilton fight with each other as easily as breathing, and he knows that having no verbal sparring partner threw the Virginian off balance yesterday.

The statement draws the attention of both men. “Oh, fantastic. It’s the trashier trash,” Hamilton says, sarcasm leaking from every word. “Just what I needed on this fine morning.”

Aaron hopes he’s talking about Jefferson.

“Aw, nice to see you too, Hamilton,” Jefferson says with a grin. He strides toward the other man at leisure. Hamilton glares, his attention shifting away from Madison, who sighs and actually does roll his eyes this time. He walks toward Aaron, limping slightly.

“Glad to see you’re looking better,” he says, and Aaron looks for insincerity but can’t find any.

“Thanks,” he says. “Do I want to know what that was all about?”

A faint smile touches at the corners of his mouth. “What is it ever about?” he says, and turns to look at where Hamilton and Jefferson are trading verbal blows. If they were any younger, Aaron suspects they would be pulling each other’s hair at this point. Frankly, he’s not entirely sure they won’t start; that’s exactly the kind of thing he could picture them doing. They’re both among the smartest men he’s ever met, and yet half the time, he thinks they have the emotional maturity of a kindergartner.

He’s not sure how Madison manages to mind Jefferson twenty-four seven. Or, if the rumors are true, date him.

“Be seeing you around,” Madison says at length, and limps off in the direction of his office. Aaron watches him go, the limp suddenly drawing his attention. After what happened last night… but no, that’s impossible. Madison can’t be Hurricane. He doesn’t have the right disposition. The limp is a coincidence; the man certainly gets sick and injured often enough. He wouldn’t be surprised if he sneezed too hard and fell down the stairs or something equally ridiculous and mundane. He's certainly not the type to go jumping around on fire escapes in the small hours of the morning.

_No,_ he thinks and turns away. _It’s definitely not Madison. And you shouldn’t be thinking about this._ He looks at Hamilton and Jefferson again, the former of which is storming away in a huff, hands thrown in the air. _If anyone here has the temperament for it, it’s Hamilton._ And Hamilton isn’t limping, not even a little bit, nor is he wearing any sort of leg brace. It can’t be him either.

Aaron shakes the thought away. _You’re not seeing him again,_ he reminds himself. Thinking on it, trying to puzzle out his identity, won’t do him any good, and he needs to stop. He heads into his office and sets himself to work.

_Just another normal day, Aaron. Treat it as such._

Strangely enough, Hamilton doesn’t come bother him all day long. He barely sees the man at all while he’s there, and if he didn’t know better, he would say that the man was avoiding him.

He pretends that doesn’t make him feel the slightest bit disappointed.

* * *

 

Hurricane comes for a visit that night.

The first thing he knows about it is a familiar thump coming from outside, from his fire escape. It comes earlier than it did last night; he hasn’t even begun to prepare for bed yet, and the noise has him immediately on alert. He bookmarks his place in his novel and stands, some part of him already knowing what he’ll find.

He opens the door to the fire escape and glares. “What are you doing back here?” he demands, and Hurricane shrugs.

“I’m not really sure,” he admits in a voice so nonchalant and unconcerned that it makes Aaron want to strangle the man, superhero or not. “You have any cats that need rescuing or anything like that?” The laughter is obvious in his voice, and Aaron takes it back. He takes it all back, every good or curious thought he has had toward this man during the course of the day. Hurricane clearly exists only for the purpose of annoying him, and he wants him to leave so he can go back to his warm, comfortable chair and not stand outside freezing his ass off talking to a guy he doesn’t know.

“No,” he says shortly. “I don’t. Good night.” He turns to go back inside.

“Aw, after I came all this way?” Hurricane says, sounding for all the world like he’s pouting, and that makes him wheel around again. He can’t measure the man’s expression, his face hidden by the hood and partial mask, and even judging his emotions by his tone of voice may be a mistake, considering that the artificial deepness of it clearly indicates some sort of voice modulator device. But his body language, with his crossed arms and cocked head, screams playfulness, and Aaron realizes with a start that the self-proclaimed superhero might be flirting with him.

And Aaron... doesn’t mind. _Shit._

“Well, considering you can’t even tell me why you ‘came all this way’, yes. I’m going to bed,” he replies, his heart suddenly beating faster. _I am the one thing in life I can control, damn it. Stop doing that._

Hurricane shrugs. “I was just in the neighborhood,” he states. “Saw your place, wanted to stop by, maybe thank you? Did I, uh, remember to thank you yesterday? Oh, shit, wait, did I wake you up again? I mean, it’s only, like, ten, so I didn’t think, but, um… shit, this was a bad idea.” The last part is whispered, directed toward himself, and Aaron barely catches it. He sighs, deciding to throw the man a bone.

“No, I wasn’t sleeping,” he admits. “And yes, you did thank me. At length. Is there another reason why you’re here?”

Hurricane shifts on his feet, neither of which, Aaron notes, are in any sort of leg brace. Was the injury not a serious as he thought? Or is Hurricane one of those stubborn people who refuse to admit weakness?

_Well, he’s up against a dangerous enemy,_ he reasons. _Of course he wouldn’t want to draw attention to any weak spot._ Even if that does mean worsening the injury. “I suppose it’s better, then? The leg,” he indicates, waving a hand toward the ankle that was hurt last night. Hurricane starts.

“What? Yeah, uh, I guess it wasn’t as bad as we thought,” he says. “Seriously, though, thanks for that. I would’ve been so fucked.”

“Hm,” he says. “I’m sure you would have figured something out.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, “but not in time to stop my friends from murdering me. They’re so overprotective, I swear to god, they would’ve been so pissed off if I didn’t get back home by morning.”

And that’s interesting, something he hasn’t considered before. Because rationally, yes, he has been aware that Hurricane has a secret identity and yes, he has spent some time thinking about it. But it is harder to reconcile not only that, but the fact that the man has an actual life and actual friends who apparently know all about his nightly activities. Especially when he’s standing right in front of him in his full costume and regalia.

“I can understand why,” he replies. “You seem like the type to take risks.”

Something in his posture shifts. “Better that than to never risk anything at all,” he snaps. “You don’t get anywhere if you have that kind of attitude.”

Aaron is taken aback. Where did that come from?

Hurricane breathes in deeply through his nose. “Sorry,” he says, irritation leaking through his voice. “It’s been a long day.” He really does sound exhausted, now that Aaron thinks about it; surely balancing two lives takes a toll on him. With that in mind, he moves closer, coming to stand next to him by the fire escape railing.

“Tell me about it,” he offers, only half-joking, which surprises a laugh out of Hurricane.

“Okay, so I know this guy,” he says. “He kinda hates me, I think, but like, it turns out he’s been getting… sick a lot, and I didn’t even notice. And then, um, another thing happened, and I’ve kind of been avoiding him since then? And I don’t know what to do. And then, my friends are all pissed off at me because technically, they wanted me to take a break last night and I didn’t. Obviously. And it’s just…” He sighs, making an aborted movement as if to run his hand through his hair. Interesting. “I’m kind of a mess,” he admits. “And add all of that shit to the fact that I’ve got a madman out for my blood and threatening the entire city. My life is not going so hot right now.” He breaks off, turning his head to look at him. The shadows that his hood casts conceals his eyes, but all the same, Aaron thinks he glances a shimmer that might be tears. “Sorry,” he says. “Shouldn’t dump all my problems on you.”

“It’s not a problem,” he assures him, even though he feels like it is, just a little bit, if he feels that he can pour his heart out to a complete stranger without thinking about the consequences. _Talk less_ , he wants to say. _Don’t you know you can’t trust everyone? Don’t you know how many people will use what you say against you?_ But he doesn’t voice these concerns; he doesn’t know the man, he has no right to advise him as he would an acquaintance or friend. “I’ve heard that talking about your problems helps you deal with them.” That’s one of the reasons why he’s so grateful he has Theo; without her, he probably would have lost it a long time ago.

Hurricane laughs, but it is not the happy laugh from earlier. “Yeah,” he mutters. “That helps a whole lot.” He pauses. “Sorry. I’m just really stressed right now.”

There is more to this, Aaron thinks, more that he isn’t saying. If he has friends, why not go to them with his problems? Why come to him, a perfect stranger? Because it is obvious to him now that even if he didn’t come here with the express purpose of venting, it was something he needed to do, still needs to do, if the strain in his voice is any indication. And if he’s laying himself bare to a man he barely knows, then he must feel, for whatever reason, that he can’t go to his friends with this.

And it also means that, on some level, he trusts him. That shouldn’t make him feel glad, but a warm glow forms in his chest anyway. Perhaps revealing that he doesn’t mind people with powers was the right thing to do after all.

And for a moment he considers it. Revealing himself. He could do it, he knows he could. Hurricane has powers himself, obviously, so he knows he wouldn’t judge. He would be nothing less than supportive, and Aaron could…

But no. That is not a good idea. It has never gone well in the past, and it wouldn’t go well now. It never does. Whatever this is that’s going on between them is probably nothing, is probably Aaron making a mountain out of a molehill and seeing connections where they don’t exist, but even if that’s the case, he still doesn’t want to disturb it. Because he _likes_ this, he realizes, likes talking to Hurricane no matter how irritating he finds him. He likes the interaction, and he doesn’t want it to stop.

“It’s fine,” he says. “God knows you have reason for it.”

Hurricane’s posture relaxes. “Thanks,” he murmurs. They stand in silence for a moment, and then, Hurricane sighs. “I should probably get going,” he says. “The city won’t save itself.”

Aaron smiles, trying to mask the disappointment that is suddenly welling up in him. “Right,” he says. “You go do that. Best of luck.”

And he thinks Hurricane smiles. He can’t see it, of course; his mouth is covered by the mask he wears. But there is something in his bearing that suggests it, and Aaron finds that he wants to make it happen again.

_Shit._

And then, the superhero is off, jumping off the fire escape in a way that makes his heart lurch, if only for a moment. The wind rises, gale-force winds that tug at his clothes and make him stagger a bit. This is the second time he has been in the presence of Hurricane’s powers, and the force of it still takes him by surprise, surprise and a little bit of awe.

Perhaps he should be scared. This man could devastate the city if he wanted to.

But he isn’t scared. At all.

Aaron watches him until he is out of sight, tracking him across the dark cloudy sky. Then, he goes back inside and sends a quick text to Theo.

_Lunch?_

Theo, because she is amazing, texts back immediately: _Time and place?_

_Tomorrow good? That coffee place a few blocks down from the firm?_ And in interest of full disclosure, he adds, _I think I may be screwed._

Theo’s reply is swift. _I’ll be there._

It relieves him, knowing he’ll have someone to talk to about this. Perhaps Theo will be able to make sense of it all where he can’t.

He goes to bed after that, falls asleep almost as soon as his head touches the pillow. He does not dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be honest, I usually don't really like love triangles. But love triangles that aren't actually love triangles? That's the shit, man.
> 
> And why is Alex's ankle suddenly a non-issue, you may ask? Well... you'll see. :)
> 
> But on to business. I've got finals for the next couple of weeks, so as much as I hate to do this, there won't be an update next week because I really need to focus on studying. The next chapter will probably be posted either a few days before or a few days after Christmas, depending on what my family's plans end up being. Until then, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!
> 
> My [tumblr](http://angelsanddemonsandducks.tumblr.com/), if you'd like to come chat. :)


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alex is not okay, and Angelica is a fucking badass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alex gets to the point where he's on the verge of a panic attack at several points during this chapter, so warnings for that.

He lands hard, his feet slamming against the rooftop with far more force than necessary. Wind rips at him, threatening to tear the hood off his head, and he forces himself to calm down, though he is not entirely successful. He feels threatened, closed in, with nowhere to run or escape-- all the hallmarks of a panic attack, which is… not good. He makes himself breathe.

_ In for three. Hold for four. Out for eight. Repeat. _

He hasn’t had an attack in months, hasn’t even let himself think about the possibility in months, not since he became Hurricane. Superheroes can’t afford to have panic attacks, and to have one now, on the rooftop of some building in full costume, could well be disastrous. He doesn’t know who might be watching.

It takes at least five minutes before he feels like he can move without the world crashing down on him, and at that point, he still doesn’t want to. He walks slowly forward to the edge of the building and sits, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his fists. He lets his feet dangle aimlessly and watches the distant lights of cars as they streak by below him.

_ In for three. Hold for four. Out for eight.  _

He closes his eyes, inhales as deeply as he can. Then, he reaches up and turns his comm back on. His friends’ voices filter through immediately, an overlapping, worried, loud chorus of sound. 

“Hey,” he says, trying not to sound like someone who has just possibly made the worst decision of his life. They fall silent, his voice cutting through theirs like a knife through butter. “I’m good, guys, calm down.”

There is quiet for a few beats. And then: “Dude, what the actual  _ fuck _ ,” Herc says flatly. “Where the hell were you?”

And then John, more frantically: “You can’t just turn off your comm like that without telling us, Jesus fucking Christ! What the fuck happened, Alex?”

He huffs out a laugh. “My impulsive and questionable decision-making skills,” he says wryly, quoting something Eliza said to him once, and oh, if that isn’t the understatement of the year. He honestly doesn’t know quite what he was thinking, landing on Burr’s fire escape like that, especially after he told himself last night that he  _ wouldn’t _ , that further interactions with Burr as Hurricane were completely out of the question. And yet, he spotted it as he was flying by and just… moved. And then Burr came out, and then they talked, and Alex said way, way too much and revealed far more than was wise and oh god what if he guesses what if he figures it out-

_ In for three. Hold for four. Out for eight. Breathe, goddamnit. _

“What’d you do?” Herc groans. There is a thumping noise from his end of the line, the distinct sound of a fist impacting against flesh; Herc insisted on coming out tonight, with a sharp glare and a “Ribs be damned,” pointing out that if Alex gets to patrol with a sprained ankle, he should get to patrol with a slight chest injury. Which doesn’t even make sense, in Alex’s opinion, considering that a person’s chest is a far more essential body part than a person’s foot, and his ankle isn’t bothering him anymore anyway. It stopped hurting pretty much as soon as he got into the office today, which must mean it wasn’t injured nearly as badly as he thought.

“Alex?” John prompts, a note of concern in his tone, and he realizes he has been quiet too long. 

“Um,” he manages. “So, I may have landed on Burr’s fire escape. And had a conversation?”  _ And flirted with him. And poured out my heart to him and told him things I haven’t even told my closest friends. Shit, he could definitely figure me out if he tried. Shit. I have to be so careful from now on, god, what was I thinking- _

“That’s some kind of Superman-Lois Lane shit right there. What kind of conversation?” Herc asks.

He bites his lip. “Just a conversation. It wasn’t like… I mean…” He trails off, the words that usually come to his lips so easily failing him. “Nothing happened,” he finishes lamely. “And he didn’t realize it was me, so don’t worry about that.”

“But he could have,” John says quietly. He’s always been good at cutting through all his bullshit. “Alex, you know you can’t keep doing this.”

He wasn’t lying when he told Burr his friends were pissed at him for what he did last night. Their anger came from worry, of course, worry about his safety, worry about his secret and how unveiling it would affect all of them. Superheroes aren’t exactly law-abiding citizens, after all; technically, what he does every night as Hurricane is a crime. If he let his secret identity go public, it would impact him and everyone around him, and not in a good way. He thinks, no, he  _ knows _ that Burr wouldn’t go revealing anything if he told him, but John and Herc don’t share his trust in the man, and besides, Hurricane shouldn’t get close to anyone, trustworthy or not. Monarch will use anything against him, including people, and he can’t allow that to happen. 

He sighs. “I know,” he agrees, passing a hand over his face wearily. “Believe me, I know.”  _ I just can’t seem to stay away.  _ “It’s not going to happen again,” he continues, even though that’s exactly what he said this morning when John and Herc confronted him. Judging from John’s sigh, he knows it too. “Herc, how’s the situation down where you are?” he asks. He knows the subject change is obvious, but neither of them calls him on it. Probably waiting to lecture him in person.

“Pretty good,” Herc replies. “I stopped a few muggings and broke up a gang fight, but nothing other than that. No sign of tall, ugly and psychotic.”

Alex frowns, staring absentmindedly out across the skyline. Monarch is unpredictable at best; he tends to show up randomly, murder some people, pick a fight and wreak some general havoc, but after he does that, he can disappear for weeks and weeks on end. He’s erratic and dangerous, and that makes him difficult to catch.

As much as Alex hates to admit it, it’s not likely that they’ll find him before he wants to be found. And they’ll know when he wants to be found. 

“John?” he asks, even though he knows John would have said something if there were anything to say.

“Nope,” John replies, confirming his thought. “Nothing on the scanner. He seems to be keeping it quiet tonight. I don’t-” He pauses, and Alex tenses. “Wait, hang on. There’s a fire on 19th, looks like a restaurant of some kind? They’re saying it might be arson. Probably unrelated, since that’s not his MO, but are either of you close?”

“I can be there in two minutes,” Alex says, already on his feet. He steps off the building and freefalls for a few moments, listening to the wind whistling loudly in his ears as he drops, the pavement seeming to rise up to meet him. Then, he summons the wind to him, and he flies.

* * *

 

It is indeed a restaurant burning, though Alex wouldn’t be able to say which. It is all but unrecognizable now, fire pouring out every window and curling around the brick foundations. There are firefighters on sight already, but they don’t seem to be having much effect; they are trying their best, but the air is warm and dry, and the wind is blowing hard. Not exactly conducive conditions for putting out a fire.

Though, the wind is something he can change. He steps out of the shadows and concentrates, and it dies down. A few firefighters recognize him, but they don’t seem averse to his presence. “I’m here to help,” he tells them anyway, just to cover his bases. One of them nods and steps closer.

“You’re the storm guy, right?” he shouts, trying to be heard over the sound of sirens and the crackling of the flames. Alex nods. “Great, we could use some rain.” The man grins humorlessly. “This’s a big one.”

Summoning an actual storm is more difficult than just wind, but he can do it. The trick is not to overdo it; he knows what he is capable of, and creating a hurricane in the middle of downtown would hardly help anything.

Lightning flashes and thunder crashes. The downpour begins, and he grits his teeth and holds his power there, refusing to let it escalate any more than that. He must make a sight, standing back with his arms raised as the firefighters charge in with their suits and hoses and determination, but he doesn’t care much about that. They are ushering people, terrified, frantic, ash-covered people, from the building now, and that only makes him more intent on his task. He wouldn’t be any use going in with them; he doesn’t have their training or their expertise, and he needs to let them do their jobs. But if he can help at all, if he can help to save even one person’s life, then he’s damn well going to do so.

After a few minutes, a few long, tense minutes, the fire starts to go down. It does so quickly, too, and he supposes that it must be out of fuel. Or something. He can’t stick around for long after that; the police are on their way, and a confrontation at this juncture probably wouldn’t be the best idea. So he checks to make sure no one is hurt too badly and turns to leave.

And then he sees her. And freezes.

A civilian crowd has gathered on the sidelines, attracted to tragedy like children are to a circus. She is standing off to the side, so no one seems to notice the way her arms are partially outstretched, or the way the flames lower as she commands them. Her eyes, though, her eyes are fixed on him, and he knows he’s screwed.

Angelica Schuyler is back.

For a moment, he considers escaping right there and then. He could do it, and surely, she can’t know it’s him. He is hooded and masked and sopping wet, and there’s no way she could recognize him under all of that. He’s been so careful, careful not to tell her or her sisters, careful not to do anything that would make them suspect. He can’t have them getting hurt, he can’t put them at risk, he  _ can’t _ -

She lifts an eyebrow and crooks a finger at him, and he walks over to her despite the way all his instincts are screaming at him to get the hell out of dodge. She meets him in the middle of the street, ducking around the civilian barrier like it isn’t even there. No one seems to notice. 

“What the hell are you doing?” she hisses as soon as he’s close enough to hear a whisper. 

“Sorry, do I know you?” he asks, one last desperate attempt to salvage this. If she was angry before, she is furious now, her eyes burning with figurative flames, and literal ones flickering up around her fingers.

“Don’t play games with me, Alexander,” she snaps, and he winces. She only calls him Alexander when she’s pissed. “You didn’t think I knew something was up?”

Oh god, he can’t do this. First Burr, now Angelica. Nothing is going right tonight. One look at her face tells him it won’t be any use denying it, so he may as well face the music. It’s like watching a train wreck from the head of the train.

“Fine, okay, I’m sorry,” he whispers, “but listen, not here. Just… come over to my place and you can chew me out there, alright? Here isn’t safe.” As he speaks, he casts his eyes around nervously, looking for anyone who might be listening or taking any undue interest in them. There are a few people watching them curiously, but that comes with the costume, and none of them are within earshot. None of them could possibly hear… 

Hopefully.

Angelica narrows her eyes, and her flames die down. “Fine,” she says, “but I expect you to be there. Don’t think you’re getting out of this one.” And she steps away, though she doesn’t take her eyes off him. He swallows hard and turns away, summoning the wind to him and taking to the air. The breeze feels icy cold against his waterlogged clothes, but he barely registers the discomfort.

“Why didn’t somebody tell me the Schuyler sisters were back in town?” he demands as soon as he is a safe distance away. For the moment, he is entirely distracted from the catastrophe that was meeting with Burr, focusing on a different error that he seems to have made.

“We’ve been texting you all day,” John replies, his surprise evident. “Did you not notice?”

He vaguely remembers turning his phone off sometime around mid morning, the notifications distracting him from his work. “Um, no,” he says. “But they got back today?” They’ve been in England for several months now; there must be a reason for the trip, but for the life of him, he can’t remember what it is.

“Why’re you asking?” Herc puts in, and Alex sighs.

“I saw Angelica,” he admits, “and she saw me. Did either of you know she suspected something?”

There is silence for a moment. Alex comes into view of his apartment, only about a minute away if he pushes hard. “She figured it out?” John asks. He doesn’t sound so much dismayed as resigned, and Alex frowns, coming to a stop in front of his apartment window, which has been left open like always. He dives in, coming to a crouch in the middle of his living room, dripping rainwater all over the carpet and startling John and Herc, the latter of whom is still dressed in bloodstained gear. Alex hopes none of it is his.

“Jesus, Alex,” John mutters. Alex stands and takes off his hood and mask, flashing a grin.

“I’m back,” he says, unnecessarily. He moves over to the couch and flops down on it, not caring if he ruins the furniture with his damp clothes. “How’re you guys?”

John and Herc exchange an unreadable glance and come over to sit beside him. Alex doesn’t know what expression is on his face right now, but it must not be a good one, because both of his friends are looking at him with concern. “That’s… we’re fine, Alex,” John says hesitantly. “We’re kinda worried about you, though.”

He shrugs. “I’m good,” he insists. “Peachy keen. Just, everything’s kinda collapsing and it’s mostly my fault, but other than that, I’m great.” He resists the urge to let out a hysterical giggle or two, sensing that it would only make his friends more concerned. He doesn’t want that.

John closes his eyes, inhales deeply. Opens them again. He reaches out a hand and puts it on Alex’s knee, and he resists the urge to flinch away. “Alex,” he says softly, “seriously. You’re pushing yourself too hard. You really need to take a break every once in a while.”

He laughs. Take a break? Really? Does John not know him at all? “I thought we went over this,” he says. “We need to stop Monarch. That’s what’s most important right now.”

“No, what’s most important right now is that you not run yourself into the ground,” Herc states. He hasn’t changed out of his costume yet, and the dark paint over his eyes that’s supposed to disguise his identity is more than a little intimidating. Or at least, it would be to most people. Alex is just annoyed.

“I’m fine,” he insists, his voice growing in volume. “Seriously. Do you guys not get how important this is? This guy could kill the whole city if we don’t-”

“We  _ know _ that, Alex!” John shouts right back. “But goddamnit, the guy hasn’t actually come out to fight you in over a month! We can’t do anything until he steps out of the shadows again, and there’s no use in you killing yourself in the meantime. Fuck, do you have any idea how shitty you look right now?”

“I can’t believe you’re suggesting we sit back and do  _ nothing _ while-”

“That’s not what I’m-”

“Really, ‘cause that’s what it-”

“Would you just shut up and listen for a-”

“Both of you need to shut the fuck up,” Herc says, his calm, albeit irritated tone cutting through the argument easily. “Neither of you are helping anything, Jesus Christ.” 

Alex huffs and leans back into the couch, crossing his arms. 

“Now, instead of acting like eight-year-olds, let’s pretend to be mature adults and actually listen to what everybody has to say, alright?” Herc continues. “Alex, John isn’t saying that we do nothing. We both want to catch this guy as much as you do. If we didn’t, we wouldn’t be here. But the way you’re doing it is going to hurt you more than it’s going to help anyone else, and so we both think it would be a great idea if you slowed down a little and didn’t get yourself killed.”

Alex… honestly can’t believe this. What are they not getting? Don’t they see that even if he was running himself down, it would be worth it to take out Monarch? Don’t they see that Monarch is a threat to the whole city, that dying would be worth it if it meant that the city was kept safe. Don’t they see how little his life matters, in the grand scheme of things? He would sacrifice himself gladly if it meant saving even one person’s life, much less the lives of millions. Why don’t they understand that? “You’re not my mother,” he snaps, glaring. Herc stares right back, his face still calm.

“No,” he agrees, “I’m your friend. We both are. And that’s why we’re going to take care of you, if you insist on not doing that yourself.”

If anything, that only angers him more. But he doesn’t have a chance to formulate a reply because at that moment, the doorbell rings once, twice, three times. John and Herc both freeze, turning to face the direction of the door. Alex laughs humorlessly. “Oh, yeah, that’s right,” he says, “I forgot to mention, Angelica said she was coming over. She seemed kinda pissed off.”

“Great,” John mutters, sending him a look. He’s still angry, then. That’s fine. Everything is fine. “Stay here, both of you.” He gets to his feet and walks out of the room. A moment later, Alex hears the telltale creak of the door opening-- he needs to oil the hinges or something, but he’s never gotten around to it-- and John’s muttered, weary greeting. 

And then she steps into the room, her head held high, bringing a gust of warm air with her. She takes it in: their outfits, the way they’re sprawled across the couch, exhausted, the tech set up on the kitchen table. “So,” she says, “how long has this been going on?” Her voice is cool and composed, but the anger in it is still obvious to anyone who knows her.

Herc laughs sheepishly. “Hey, Angie,” he says. “Nice to see you.”

Angelica rolls her eyes and moves further into the room, sitting herself down on one of the chairs that still remains dry. “Answer the question,” she says, crossing her arms.

John sighs and comes back to his seat. “About six months now,” he says. “I’m sure you’ve heard the news.”

She nods. “Obviously. But I wanted to hear it from you.” And with that, she turns to Alex, fixing him with a sharp stare that makes him want to wilt in his place. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” she demands, and he winces, his discomfort aggravated all the more from knowing that she has a good point. Angelica can handle herself, and her ability to summon and control fire would certainly be helpful in their fight against the Monarch. He honestly doesn’t have a good excuse as to why he left her out.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” he admits. “And I didn’t want you getting hurt.”

That is the wrong thing to say. The temperature in the room shoots up by at least ten degrees, and she glares. “So you don’t think I can handle myself?” she demands. “What the fuck, Alexander, you know that I-”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant!” he is quick to put in because, seriously, if there’s anyone who can handle herself, it’s Angelica. She is a more functional human being than anybody else in this room, and if he’s being honest, she could kick any of their asses and not even need to use her powers to do it. “I just… look, you went to London pretty soon after we started this thing, alright? And… after what happened to Laf, I didn’t… I didn’t want to…” He trails off, shaking his head, faltering. The anxiety is stirring in his gut again, and he forces himself to try and keep it together.

S he cocks her head. “What happened to Laf?” she repeats. “You’re saying that their coma has something to do with this?”

Herc takes it from there. “We’re not positive, but, yeah, we think so.” He stops, looks at Alex and John, checking to make sure he should continue. Neither of them stop him, though Alex almost wants to. But Angelica deserves the whole truth, now that she’s here. Herc sighs. “Laf gets visions of the future,” he explains, “but it’s random, and they can’t control it. They wanted to see if being at one of the Monarch’s crime scenes would help them zone in on something more specific, but… well. That… did not help at all.”

It had been one of the most frightening experiences of Alex’s life, watching what happened. One look at the crime scene had Laf letting out a strangled noise and collapsing, hitting their head hard against the concrete. They’d started convulsing, and it was all Alex could do not to start panicking. They got them to the hospital as quickly as they could, only for the doctors to pronounce that they were in a coma, for reasons they could not determine. It’s been months, and there is still no indication that Laf will ever wake up.

One of the hardest parts was seeing Washington’s face when he was told the news. To him, Laf is the child that he and Martha never had, having taken them in when they were a teenager. And now, Laf is in a coma, and Alex can’t even tell him the reason why.

Because it’s Alex’s fault. If it weren’t for him, Laf would never have been at that crime scene in the first place.

_ In for three. Hold for four. Out for eight. Breathe. _

“Since then, we haven’t made any progress,” he tries to continue, wincing at the way his voice cracks and hoping nobody will call him on it. “Not with his identity, not with what he’s really after, not with beating him, and…” He trails off, looks away. “I just don’t want anybody else to get hurt,” he finishes, and it comes out as more of a plea than anything else. He braves a glance at Angelica’s face, and her expression has softened, if only a little.

“No one else is going to get hurt,” she tells him, and warm flames flicker across her fingers, dancing and twisting in comforting ways. “Now,” she says, using that tone of voice that means she’s going to get her way, “bring me a laptop and tell me what you’ve got.”

They all exchange glances. Herc shrugs.

“We’re not getting rid of you, are we?” John says, and she rolls her eyes.

“I can’t believe you even have to ask,” she replies, and makes a gesture. “Laptop.”

Herc stands and retrieves it from the kitchen table. “Alright,” he says, “but you know you’ve got to keep it on the down-low, right?” 

She gives him a look and takes the laptop. “I’m not stupid,” she states flatly. “You’re all idiots if you think I’m going to hide this from my sisters, but I’m not about to go share this with the public.”

And the conversation keeps going, John and Herc and Angelica discussing all the details and throwing ideas back and forth. And Alex… just listens, feeling lost, disconnected, adrift, unable to contribute as the conversation continues above his head. This is something that he certainly wasn’t expecting, and he can’t quite bring himself to dislike the development, because he loves Angelica and is sure he’ll be incredibly grateful for her help with this. But at the same time, he is struck by the sudden feeling that… they don’t need him here. They talk amongst themselves, doing just fine entirely without his input, and honestly, they might not even notice if he left the room right now.

He really, really doesn’t like that.

But for once, he doesn’t know what to do about it. Because he has a strong feeling that if he opens his mouth to say something, no sound will come out.

So he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t bother. And nobody seems to notice.

_ In for three. Hold for four. Out for eight. _

So when Angelica looks up from the laptop, expression grim, and declares that she may have found the connection between the murder victims, he absorbs the news in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Narrator voice: *Everything was not fine.*
> 
> I debated for a long time over whether I should give Angelica or Eliza the fire powers. In the end, Angelica won out, just because I think it fits her personality better as a whole? Idk. But Eliza also has powers that will be revealed shortly, because Eliza is the best and deserves all the good things.
> 
> Should anyone want to come chat or feed me headcanons or prompts, my [tumblr](http://angelsanddemonsandducks.tumblr.com/) is here!


	7. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aaron has a slight crisis, and then he has visitors. A steady stream of them.

Theo is waiting for him when he enters the cafe; she has claimed a booth for them in the back of the building, in a perfect spot to be able to keep an eye on all the other people there. Something for which Aaron is grateful; he has never particularly liked having his back to a room, especially not when trying to discuss personal matters with someone. Old habits die hard, after all, and this habit dates back to childhood, when he was desperate not to let his grandparents hear him talking about his abilities, or anything else, for that matter.

“Hey,” she greets him with a smile, taking a sip of her coffee. She has already ordered for him as well, and he takes a cautious sip. Perfection, as usual; she remembers his coffee order just like he remembers hers, along with a thousand other idiosyncrasies. There’s a reason why they’ve stayed best friends.

“Hey,” he replies. “Thanks for…” He trails off, gesturing vaguely at their surroundings. She gets it.

“Anytime, Aaron,” she says. “So, what’s up?”

He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, and to make sure that he really wants to do this, really wants to tell her everything that’s been happening. Opening up about this seems intimidating, somehow, like talking about it will somehow make it more real, and he’s not sure he’s ready for that. And yet, this is Theo, who has stuck with him despite everything, and if there’s anyone he’s going to talk to about this, it’s her, because he knows that he can trust her.

“Hurricane’s been landing on my fire escape,” he begins, and the whole story comes tumbling out, from the first night, when Aaron wrapped the man’s injury, to last night, where Hurricane came and talked to him for no real reason at all. He confesses that he feels relaxed in his presence, that he’s been tempted to reveal himself, and that he wants to keep meeting him despite the dangers. And last of all, he reveals that he’s fairly sure that the superhero has been flirting him, and not only does he not mind, he might even like it.

When he’s finished, Theo leans back in her seat and gives him a long, considering look. “Well,” she says, and takes another long draught of coffee. “That’s definitely something.”

He laughs, and the sound is only slightly bitter. “I know that much,” he says. “What the hell do I do with this, Theo?”

She sighs. “Okay,” she starts, leaning forward and clasping her hands on the table. “Okay. So, the way I see it, you’ve got a few options here. You said you liked him flirting with you? That’s fine. There’s a couple of ways you can choose to interpret that. You can say that you’re just flattered by the attention and leave it there. Or-” She fixes him with an intense stare- “you can admit to yourself that you might be attracted to him. It’s your choice, and I’ll support you either way. But if this whole nightly-visit thing turns into a regular occurrence, you might want to make up your mind about that pretty quick, alright?”

Aaron blinks. Stares. “Why are you so calm about this?” he demands, because she’s certainly far more calm than he is. He is still panicking, still reeling from all that has been happening lately. It’s only been two days since he met Hurricane, and already, his whole world has begun to turn upside down.

She shrugs. “About which part?” she asks wryly. “The superhero casually hanging out on your fire escape thing? Because, no, believe me, I am very much freaking out about that. But the you might not be straight thing? Aaron, I’ve been waiting for something like that since you started ranting about Alex Hamilton literally every time we met up. I was this close to suggesting you sleep with him and be done with it.”

Well. That’s… not what he was expecting. He and Hamilton? Really? Though, he’s fairly sure that it’s not the first time it’s been implied to him; he thinks he remembers Jefferson saying something about it the other day. But that is definitely impossible; even if he  _ were _ attracted to Hamilton-- which he isn’t,  _ really _ \-- Hamilton is definitely not attracted to him. Surely he would know if he were? The man isn’t exactly subtle. About anything.

“Alright,” he begins slowly, making the executive decision to ignore the Hamilton conundrum, “say I am attracted to Hurricane. A little bit. It’s not like anything could ever come of it, so what’s the point?”

She shakes her head at him. “You can’t possibly know that,” she points out. “And you  _ won’t _ know unless you try. You know I’m here for you no matter what you decide to do, but I think that if you want to, flirting back a little wouldn’t hurt anybody. Test the waters, that sort of thing. And don’t overthink it. I know that’s something you tend to do, but try not to worry so much about it.”

He huffs out a laugh. Telling him not to overthink something is akin to telling him not to breathe, because that’s just who he is. Aaron Burr, overthinker, overplanner, champion of waiting too long to get what he wants and letting things slip through his fingers like so much dust.

Theo reaches out and covers her hand in his. For a fraction of a moment, a few tendrils of emotion slide their way past his walls: affection, and a little bit of worry, but also wholehearted belief, belief in  _ him _ , he realizes. They disappear a second later, but he can still see those feelings reflected in her eyes. “And for the record,” she says, her voice warm, “I think it would do you good to tell someone else about your powers. Bottling them up like this isn’t good for you. And I think that telling Hurricane would be alright.”

Perhaps. Perhaps not. He has struggled with this dilemma for the past couple of nights, now, and he still hasn’t reached a conclusion. Perhaps it would go fine, perhaps he would gain that support he’s always craved so desperately, would gain just a little bit of freedom, a little bit of breathing room to work around the constant, crushing weight of this secret sitting on his chest. But then again, perhaps it wouldn’t go well at all, and what would the consequences be then?

Hearing Theo’s reassurances makes him feel a little better, but not much, not as much as he’d hoped.

He is opening his mouth to respond, though with what, he isn’t sure, when the hairs on the back of his neck prickle and stand on end, sending a shiver down his spine. It is a familiar feeling, a feeling of being watched, of being scrutinized, of attention on him that may or may not be malevolent. He starts scanning the rest of the cafe immediately, and it doesn’t take long to find the source of the feeling, because that is John Laurens behind the counter over there, John Laurens, whipping up a cup of coffee for the next person in line, John Laurens with his eyes fixed on him, an eyebrow raised, because this is where John Laurens works. How could he forget? He jerks his hand back from Theo’s as if he has been burned, struck with the impression that he’s been caught doing something he’s not supposed to be doing. Which is entirely ridiculous, of course; there is nothing wrong with having lunch with a friend.

And yet, the feeling persists, even after Laurens looks away.

“I think I need to go,” he says in response to Theo’s quizzical look.

“Alright,” she replies. “Take care of yourself, Aaron. I’m serious.”

He laughs and stands. “No promises, but I’ll do my best. Thanks for this.”

She grins back, all teeth and charm. “You’re paying next time,” she tells him, and he nods in agreement before making his way out to the cafe, checking his watch as he does so. His lunch hour is almost over anyway, so he would have had to leave regardless of his discomfort.

He feels Laurens’ gaze on his back as he exits, and he pretends that he can ignore it.

* * *

 

It’s business as usual after that, and he tries to get some work done. He really does. But it’s made almost impossible by the succession of unwanted visitors that parade in and out of his office during the course of the day. The first, and perhaps most unwelcome, is Thomas Jefferson, who waltzes in like he owns the place, and in his mind, he probably does. He flops down in one of the chairs and sprawls across it, taking up twice the space that he needs to.

“Yes,” Aaron says, “please. Do come in.”

Jefferson rolls his eyes. “Don’t be like that,” he chides. “Tell me which one you think is better.” And he lists off two names, neither of which Aaron recognizes.

“Am I supposed to know what that means?” he asks, and Jefferson sighs, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair.

“Restaurants, man, restaurants!” he chides. “Do you ever leave your apartment? Jesus. I’m trying to figure out where to take James tonight.”

So they are dating. Huh. “And you would come to me with this question because?” he asks, because really, Jefferson usually isn’t one to ask for advice at all, much less from him. They’re not at each other's throats all the time like Jefferson is with Hamilton, but they don’t interact much outside of work, and they’re hardly friends.

“Angie’s busy and Hamilton threw a stapler at my head,” is the reply, and Aaron wishes he could say he were surprised, but that response is incredibly in-character as far as Hamilton is concerned, at least, though is is far more likely that Angelica simply told him to fuck off.

“You’re actually desperate to make this work, aren’t you?” he states, and raises his hands placatingly at Jefferson’s suddenly stormy expression. “You went to  _ Hamilton _ for relationship advice. You’re desperate.”

Jefferson regards him with narrowed eyes, letting the silence stretch for one moment, two moments, three. Then, he rolls his eyes again and huffs out a laugh. “Touché,” he allows. “Seriously, though, is this going to be another one of those things that you find yourself unable to form an opinion on?”

That riles him up, just a little bit, though he is careful not to let his annoyance show.  _ Just because I don’t go spewing my thoughts everywhere and at every opportunity doesn’t mean I don’t have them, _ he doesn’t say, because he is not Jefferson, and he is not Hamilton, and he does not allow himself to blurt out things like that. “Perhaps,” is what he says instead. “Why don’t you just go ask Madison which one he would prefer? Can’t go wrong with that.”

Jefferson lets out a little noise of disgust and stands. “That would take the fun out of it, though,” he insists. “Do you even hear yourself?” He sighs and shakes his head. “Tell him about the surprise date before you take him on the surprise date. Yeah, that’s a great idea. No wonder you can’t get laid.” And then he is stalking out of the room, shouting after some poor paralegal he happened to spot, leaving Aaron to gape at an empty room, because seriously? What was that supposed to mean?

_ Just ignore him. He’s completely impossible. _

Easier said than done, of course, where Jefferson is concerned, but Aaron’s gotten good at it over the years.

So, he gets back to work, dives right back into his notes and files and almost, almost manages to forget how complicated his life has become for a time. Until, of course, there is a knock on his door, and he looks up to see Elizabeth Schuyler standing on the threshold of his office, a look of determination in her eyes and a shark-like grin on her face. 

“Hello Aaron,” she greets. “Would you happen to know where Alexander is? He’s not in his office.”

And he has to take a moment to gather himself before he can respond, because not only is Hamilton not in his office for some reason, he is fairly sure that that is an actual vine that is actually growing out of Eliza’s sleeve and winding itself around her wrist and what the actual fuck.

“I-” he clears his throat, his eyes still fixed on the plant. “Well, if he’s not in his office, you might try the break room or the roof. The roof’s actually more likely, he goes up there when he needs a breath of air.”

She nods sharply. “Thank you,” she says, and she turns on her heel and exits the room, leaving flowers floating to the floor in her wake. He doesn’t move, staring at them, wondering whether he should pick them up or if they’ll somehow vanish on their own, still trying to absorb exactly what just happened.

“On a scale of one to ten, how pissed off did she look?” another voice asks, and he looks up. It is Maria Lewis standing in the doorway now, a smile tugging at the edges of her lips.

“I’m not sure how to quantify it,” he responds. “What did Hamilton  _ do _ ?”

She smirks and steps further into the office, bending over to pick up one of the flowers. “Rhododendrons,” she mutters. “Damn.” She looks up at him. “Depends on who you’re asking. According to him, nothing, I’m sure. According to the rest of us, something reckless and dumb.”

“That’s just typical Hamilton, though.”

“Well, yes.” She strokes the pink petals gently. “But the thing is, he didn’t tell us before doing the dumb, reckless thing, and he has continued to not tell us that he has been doing the dumb, reckless thing, so we’re all pissed off at him right now.”

He studies her for a moment, wondering if she is going to go the way of her girlfriend and make some kind of wildlife appear out of thin air. Nothing is forthcoming, though that probably doesn’t mean much. He has been acquainted with Eliza Schuyler for years now, and never before has he noticed that she has a tendency to...grow things. 

He wonders if he’s been missing anything else.

“Flowers have meanings, right?” he asks, and waits for her nod before continuing. “What do rhododendrons mean, then?”

She smiles, and the expression is scarily like Eliza’s had been just a moment before. “Beware,” she says. “Alex is in a lot of trouble.” She pauses. “You’re awfully calm about the… y’know,” she trails off, gesturing at the flower in her hand and the petals that now litter his office floor. 

He shrugs. “I work in the same building as Hamilton and Jefferson. Trust me when I say there’s not a lot of things that can faze me.” Honestly, finding out that Eliza has powers is probably one of the most normal things that has happened to him this week.

Maria laughs. “True enough,” she agrees. “But then, there’s not a whole lot of things that can faze you even without considering that, is there?” She grins. “Ice Man.” 

He takes the name as the good natured teasing it’s meant to be. Monikers like that annoy him coming from most people, but he and Maria have always been friendly, ever since he got her ex-boyfriend put away for fifteen years on domestic abuse charges. He is glad that she and Eliza have found happiness with each other; though their relationship certainly bagan in an unconventional way, he can’t think of two people who love each other more, or deserve better cards than what they were initially dealt.

How a man like Hamilton once managed to attract both of them is completely beyond him.

At that moment, Eliza comes sweeping back down the hallway and stops behind her girlfriend in the doorway. “Thank you for your help, Aaron,” she says, her eyes daring him to say anything about the brambles weaving themselves into her hair as she speaks.

“Of course,” he replies, hoping that his expression communicates that he frankly could not care less about whether or not Eliza has an ability. It seems to work well enough, because after a moment of holding his eyes, she relaxes just a little and takes Maria’s hand.

“I think we’re done here,” she says, and Maria shoots him one last grin before they are off, strolling down the hallway, their hands swinging in between them.

After all of that, Aaron is expecting Hamilton himself to come for a visit, since everyone else in the city has seen fit to, and he is not disappointed, though it takes longer than he would have thought. The sun is just beginning to hang low in the sky, sending gold highlights through the slats in the blinds of the window, and he is just about ready to call it a day when Hamilton comes trudging in, throwing himself down on a chair with a heavy sigh.

“It’s been one of those days, y’know?” he says in lieu of a proper greeting, and Aaron rolls his eyes.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” he says dryly, and it is only then that Hamilton seems to notice the plantlife still scattered across the floor.

“Ah,” he says, letting out a weak chuckle. “I see. So she came here first.” And he regards him, his eyes full of suspicion. “Wait, were you the one who told her I was on the roof?” he demands.

“She was going to find you anyway,” Aaron replies.

Hamilton huffs, looks away. There is a weariness to his eyes that discomfits Aaron slightly, though for the life of him he doesn’t know why. “That’s true,” he says. “But I would have liked to have put it off for a while. Marshal my strength.”

Aaron scoffs. “Since when do you have to marshall your strength for any kind of confrontation?” he asks. When a reply is not forthcoming, he frowns and studies the man more closely. He is well and truly exhausted, he realizes, and not in the way he normally is. Whatever is going on, and there is something going on, it’s not simply sleep deprivation. This is worse than he was a few days ago, when he was snapping at anyone to come near him. Hamilton appears to be bone-tired in a way that Aaron has never seen before, and that is enough to send the first tendrils of panic shoot down his spine. “Hamilton?” he prompts gently, and Hamilton turns to look at him.

“Burr, if you knew some potentially important information that may or may not be completely true but that people should know if it is true but might have potentially devastating effects either way, would you share it, or would you not and try to do something about it yourself?” he asks, and… what? Aaron tracks his way through the convoluted sentence and finds about a hundred things wrong with it. Hamilton has never been one to keep information to himself; no, that has always been him. Hamilton is the oversharer. Hamilton, frankly, has no brain-to-mouth filter when it comes to any subject he has an opinion on.

And yet, he is asking him, Aaron Burr, whether it would be wise to share a piece of information. That would, apparently, have devastating effects.

If this is what has Hamilton so worked up, he’s not sure he wants to know about it.

But there is a dim light in Hamilton’s eyes that gives him pause. It is the light of desperation, and when Hamilton is desperate, things never end well.

Aaron makes a decision.

“Alright,” he says, standing and coming around to lean against the front of his desk. “First of all, it’s Aaron, alright? We’ve certainly known each other long enough for that. And second, what information are we talking about here?”

Hamilton regards him for a moment, and then he sighs and sits up straighter, seeming to come to some sort of resolution. “My friends and I have been… looking into the Monarch murders,” he explains, “trying to find some sort of connection, anything that might be some sort of pattern. And, last night… Angelica found something.” He hesitates, sucks in a breath. “They all have some sort of connection to the firm,” he says, and Aaron feels his heart rate increase. “This firm.  _ Our _ firm. They all worked here at some point, or they helped Washington to get it off the ground, or they ruled in our favor a few times. But this firm is the common thread.”

“You think Monarch’s got it out for us,” Aaron realizes, his mouth going dry.

Hamilton regards him. “I think Monarch’s got it out for  _ Washington _ ,” he corrects. He keeps his voice mostly even, but Aaron can see that it’s a struggle. “So, you see, consequences if I’m wrong, consequences if I’m right, and then there’s the fact that…” He trails off, frowning, seeming to wrestle with himself.

“The fact that what?” Aaron asks.

And Hamilton drops the second bombshell of the day.

“The fact that we’re working with Hurricane.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, friends! Let's hope 2017 is at least marginally better than 2016! (I mean, I'm not holding my breath, but hey, can't hurt to hope, right?)
> 
> ...Y'know, it occurred to me this chapter that for lawyers, they don't seem to be doing a whole lot of lawyering. Oh well. *shrugs*
> 
> My [tumblr](http://angelsanddemonsandducks.tumblr.com/) is here, if anybody wants to chat or ask me questions or anything!
> 
> Edit (1/12/17): Hey guys! I know I usually post on Sundays, so I'm sorry I missed last weekend. Unfortunately, a combination of RL and writer's block are conspiring to keep me away from my fics, so I'm afraid I can't guarantee an update next weekend either. I'm making progress on it, but slowly, so I can't tell you for sure when it'll be out, but I feel confident I'll update by the end of the month at the latest. Again, sorry about this. I just wanted to let y'all know so you don't think I've disappeared on you or something. Until next time!


	8. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex takes Aaron's advice, and then shit hits the fan.

The sentence hangs in the air, heavy and damaging, like a wrecking ball frozen mid-swing. The silence stretches out between them, and Alex measures the time that passes with the pounding of his heart. 

He has to remind himself to breathe.

_ You’re doing the right thing,  _ he reminds himself.  _ This is a calculated leap, and you decided to risk it. You need his help on this, you  _ want _ his help on this. But he’s not going to find out. _

_ You’re fine. _

So many lies, mired in half-truths and omissions. There was a time when he wasn’t good at lying. Now, it has become second nature to him, and it feels wrong, dirty, like he’s sneaking around behind his back, like he… it actually feels akin to the time he was with Maria, and that’s a sign he should stop with this train of thought. But the feeling doesn’t go away, the guilt plastered to him like a second skin. He’s surprised the world can’t see it, surprised that  _ Burr _ can’t see it.

_ But I can’t tell him. That’s something I can’t risk, no matter how much I want to. _

_ At least that’s the only thing I’m lying about. At the moment. _

Burr-- no, Aaron, he told him to call him Aaron, and that simple concession has set his fingers to trembling and made a warm fuzzy glowing feeling develop in his stomach-- breathes in deeply. “You’re working with Hurricane,” he repeats. It isn’t a question or a protest. It is just a statement, plain and simple, as if they are discussing the weather.

“Um, yes,” he replies, and then stops. Checks for a reaction. He gets one. Burr-- Aaron!-- steeples his fingers near his face.

“Of course you are,” Aaron says, something like a strangled laugh edging its way into his voice. “Of course you-- do you know that he’s been--” He cuts himself off, though Alex knows what he was about to say. And he’s glad that he doesn’t have to answer, because that would just be one more lie to go with the rest.

_ Do you know that he’s been landing on my fire escape? _ Or something of the like. Alex honestly doesn’t know what his response would be.

“Alright then,” Aaron says. “You do realize that before a court of law, that will call every single one of your findings into question. Will likely invalidate them. In fact, it’ll almost certainly get you into legal trouble for aiding and abetting a criminal. Unless, of course, you lie about your sources, but if that is discovered, that will be doubly damning.”

“And therein lies the dilemma,” Alex agrees, spreading his hands helplessly. For once, he has no idea what to do with the situation; it had taken a lot of effort just to absorb the information when Angelica grimly presented it last night, much less figure out how to act on it. His first instinct was to warn Washington immediately; how could it not be? But second thoughts, prompted mostly by his friends, told him that that would be rash and impulsive and quite possibly not have the effect he wanted.

So, here are the choices: reason or instinct? Should he protect his loved ones as well as he can or as smart as he can? Because there is a division there, one that could make the difference between success and failure, life and death, but which one is which, he doesn’t know. He is caught in the middle, and he doesn’t know where to turn.

Aaron holds his gaze steadily for a few moments, the expression behind his eyes as inscrutable as it usually is. Then, he sighs. “If you really want my advice on this,” be begins slowly, “then I would wait to tell anybody. And that’s not-” He raises a hand to forestall the protests that are on the tip of Alex’s tongue- “that’s not just because it’s what I would do. If you don’t have any evidence beyond the circumstantial, nothing that would hold up in court, there is absolutely nothing we can do about this threat. We both know Washington wouldn’t agree to a guard, and in any case, a guard wouldn’t be any match for a supervillain. The same goes for getting him into protective custody. The best we can do right now is be on the lookout, to watch carefully, and if something happens-” He shrugs- “well, you’ve got a superhero on speed dial now, don’t you.”

It is exactly what Alex expected he would say. It shouldn’t be as comforting as it is, should  _ rankle _ ; sitting still and waiting has never been his strong suit. But, he realizes, Aaron has somehow become a rock just like his other friends, a voice of reason and patience, and he values that, even if he doesn’t usually agree. Or listen.

It takes him a moment to realize he just thought of Aaron as his friend.

“Are we friends?” he blurts out, because apparently he has lost all control over what little brain-to-mouth filter he has. Aaron blinks, a moment of brief, uncharacteristic uncertainty flashing on his face.

“I… would think so,” he replies, and the hesitance in his voice is almost undetectable, would be undetectable to anyone who didn’t know him. “Do you want to be?”

He is quick to nod. “Of course!” he exclaims. “Obviously! I’m just usually not really sure where I stand with you, so I wanted to make sure.”

Aaron frowns slightly. “You’re not?”

“Well, I mean, no. You’re kinda hard to read, most of the time.”

And for some reason, that makes Aaron close down, shutters snapping closed and a blank wall rising where there was emotion- albeit subtle- just a moment before. “Right,” he says, and Alex can tell that the conversation is over. Not that he wants it to be, but…

It might be time to leave, before he makes anything worse.

“Thanks, Aaron,” he says, “seriously.”

The ghost of a smile returns to Aaron’s face. “Anytime, Hamilton, though I doubt making a habit of this is a good idea.”

Alex grins and turns to go, feeling significantly lighter than he did when he first come in here. But before he steps across the threshold, he pauses and turns, remembering one last thing. 

“Alex,” he insists. “I’m Alex.” And as he leaves, he gets the distinct pleasure of seeing shock pass over Aaron Burr’s face.

* * *

 

The night starts out relatively smoothly. He is, for once, feeling completely awake and aware, though that might be partially because he has passed beyond the point of exhaustion and into that hyper-awareness that belies sleep deprivation. And tonight, he has help, more help than he has had in a long time. Herc is patrolling downtown, and both Angelica and Eliza are out too, wearing hastily thrown-together outfits consisting of dark pants, hoodies, and dollar-store masks. He only put up a token protest, knowing that if Monarch actually shows up, he’s going to need the support. 

And back at home, John and Maria are running tech and getting along like a house on fire. Which, frankly, is a little scary.

He jumps from rooftop to rooftop, conserving his strength, only using his powers when he thinks he won’t be able to bridge the gap without them. There has been no sign of the Monarch, and if his luck holds, there won’t be tonight. Maybe, just maybe, he can turn in earlier than usual and catch some of that sleep even he has to recognize he sorely needs.

And then, Maria’s voice comes in over the comm, and his heart plummets straight down to his feet.

“We’ve got a sighting,” she says grimly. “23rd and 2nd. Near that new seafood place.”

That’s only a few blocks from here. He swears, violently and at length, and then he allows the wind to take him in that direction, his heart suddenly pounding. Because if there’s a sighting, if he’s really there, then this has to be a trap. The Monarch is very rarely found when he doesn’t want to be found, so if he’s in plain sight, then there’s some sort of plan behind it, and Alex isn’t sure that he wants to know what it is.

He has to, though. This is what he signed up for the first time he put on the costume, and if there’s any chance he can end this once and for all, he’s not going to back down.

Monarch is waiting for him when he lands, standing casually in the middle of a deserted street, red cape and ridiculously ornate robes gathered about him in a way that is probably supposed to be majestic but really, really isn’t. It seems like any pedestrians nearby had the good sense to get the hell out of dodge, and the few cars parked on the side of the road have been abandoned, some of them with the keys still in the ignition. Overall, a better situation than Alex could have hoped for; whenever there are civilians nearby, protecting them has to become his top priority, which makes everything else ten times more complicated. If there’s no one to worry about but himself here, he has a better chance of winning.

Monarch’s face, or what he can see of it, underneath his mask, stretches into a wide grin. “Hello there, Hurricane,” he says, his voice modulator-deepened voice sounding like a purr. It’s unsettling, not that he would show it. “How nice to see you. Have you been getting my messages?”

Alex’s hands ball into fists, but he stops himself from otherwise visibly reacting. “Loud and clear,” he snaps. “You really shouldn’t have, you know. If you wanted me, you knew exactly how to find me.”

The grin stretches even wider, gaining a manic edge to it. “Yes, but where would be the fun in that?” he returns, and Alex wishes he were imagining the laugh in his voice.

“You’re fucking sick,” he grits out, and above him, the skies darken as his anger makes the clouds roll in. Monarch looks up, tilting his head.

“Right to it, then?” he says, and tuts. “My my, Hurricane, someone’s certainly touchy today.”

“You’ve been killing people!”’

Monarch shoots him a look that he can tell is full of disdain, even with the white lenses of his mask covering his eyes. “Obviously,” he says. He raises a hand, and the pavement itself trembles. “It’s just what I do. I thought you would have learned that by now.” Behind him, several of the parked cars lift into the air, and Alex braces himself.

The cars go flying, and the fight begins in earnest.

Fighting a telekinetic as strong as the Monarch is always a harrowing experience, because it is so very different from any other kind of battle that Alex faces. The raw power that Monarch brings to bear is enough to match him as no one else can, and would certainly overpower him if he didn’t keep on his toes. As it is, he’s having a hard time keeping up.

_ Should’ve listened to your friends, dumbass, _ he thinks viciously, summoning a gust of wind barely strong enough to keep another car from hitting him.  _ They told you to get some rest, but did you do that? No. Great going, genius.  _ If he is defeated here because of something as trivial as being tired, he will never hear the end of it. Might not even be alive to hear the end of it.

With this in mind, he rallies. Fights as best as he can, doesn’t let the bastard get to him. And yet, it never seems to be enough. Their battle rages on, and somehow, he can’t seem to gain the upper hand. Every advantage he gains, he loses just as quickly, and every attack he summons is batted aside as if it were nothing. And all the while, Monarch wears that sickening smile, as if he is already assured of his victory.

Alex is beginning to think he might be right.

“Damnit,” he swears, and rolls out of the way of another attack. Monarch has taken to ripping up the pavement itself now, and avoiding the concrete is becoming very tiresome very fast. 

“Angelica and Eliza are about four minutes away,” John says, voice worried. “Herc’ll be there in two. Can you hold out that long?”

Alex laughs breathlessly. “What do you think I’m trying to do?” he asks, and leaps forward, lightning at his fingertips. Electricity isn’t something he uses very often; it’s unpredictable, difficult to control, and if he isn’t careful with it, it’ll do more harm than good. But Monarch is also unpredictable and difficult, and if he doesn’t do something to even the odds and fast, his friends won’t be arriving to an ideal situation.

Monarch laughs gleefully. “Good, good,” he catcalls. “Very good! But ultimately useless, I’m afraid.”

Alex snarls and lunges, but just before he connects, Monarch waves a hand and he goes flying backward, crashing into the side of a building with an impact that makes the foundations tremble. A burst of pain jolts through his ribs, and he swears again. Hopefully, nothing’s broken. He stumbles to his feet, his vision beginning to waver.

He can’t keep this up for much longer. He hates to admit it, but it’s true.

He needs another gambit. Something else to try. A distraction.

“So what did Washington ever do to you?” he calls out, hoping he hasn’t just made a horrible mistake. Monarch stops in his tracks, his mouth twisting.

“Why, my dear boy, whatever do you mean?” he asks, and his voice has suddenly gone very quiet. Alex frowns and takes another few steps forward, one hand reaching up to make sure his hood is still firmly covering his head. 

“You’re going after Washington’s people,” he says. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” He tries to sound confident, sure of himself and his position, powerful when he knows that if he can’t keep Monarch distracted until Herc gets here, he’s toast.

The Monarch cocks his head. “What an interesting theory,” he says. “A very, very interesting theory indeed. But you see, you-”

Whatever the man is about to say is cut off, because at that moment, Herc comes barrelling out of an alley, taking the Monarch down in a tackle that would make any NFL player envious. Monarch curses and with a wave of his hand pushes Herc off. But Herc manages to hold his ground, coming sliding to a controlled stop next to Alex. 

“Man,” he says with a sharp grin. “You trying to keep all the fun for yourself?”

Alex smiles wryly, and suddenly the ache in his chest feels bearable. He gestures to the supervillain, who is clambering to his feet and trying to regain his lost dignity, and not quite succeeding. “You’re welcome to join in,” he says, and Herc takes him up on his offer.

This isn’t the first time they’ve fought Monarch together, but somehow, it feels like the most important. Alex is tired, and Herc is out of breath from running all the way here, but they make it work, fighting in tandem, a perfect team. Herc attacks from one side, taking the brunt of Monarch’s attacks with relative ease thanks to his augmented strength, and Alex attacks from the other, exploiting every weak spot that Herc manages to open up.

Together, it starts to look like they might actually win this. And if Angelica and Eliza can get here too, then-

“We’ve got a problem,” Maria says. “The police have set up a barrier a few blocks down, keeping everyone out. Eliza and Angelica ran into it. They’re trying to get around, but they’re gonna be a few minutes late. You guys holding up okay?”

Herc grunts. “Well enough,” he mutters. “We’ve got him on the ropes.” He moves in for another strike.

And that, of course, is when things go wrong.

“Enough!” Monarch shouts, all the glee in his voice replaced by anger. A psychic wave knocks Alex and Herc away, leaving the villain to stand alone in the middle of the street. “You cannot defeat me!”

“Said every megalomaniac in every superhero comic to ever be written,” Herc shoots back, and they both start edging forward again. They have gained the upper hand, Alex can tell; Monarch wouldn’t be so furious otherwise. But Monarch holds out a hand, and suddenly, they are both unable to move.

_ Damnit. _

“You,” Monarch says with a scowl, “have become a nuisance.” Alex scowls back and strains against the invisible bonds holding him in place. He manages a single step, but no more than that. Beside him, he can see a vein throbbing in Herc’s forehead as he too struggles against Monarch’s power. 

“Too fucking bad,” he shouts back. “You knew what you were signing up for when you came out here. What the fuck were you expecting?” With no small effort, he brings lightning to crackle at his fingertips. Without use of his arms, his aim will be off, but surely he can accomplish  _ something _ .

But Monarch sees. “Ah ah ah,” he reprimands, wagging a finger. “None of that now. I’m doing what I came here to do. You are mine to subdue, do you understand?  _ Mine _ .” His voice increases in volume until it is almost a shout, and chills run up and down Alex’s spine.

“You aren’t making any sense,” Herc mutters, and glances at Alex out of the corner of his eye. “It’s not just me, right? Is he making any sense to you?”

Monarch regards them imperiously. “Worms,” he sniffs. And then, without breaking his hold over them, he turns his attention to a nearby building, and with a rush of horror, Alex realizes what is about to happen.

_ Near that new seafood place,  _ Maria had said. That new seafood place which, at this time in the evening, would be packed with diners, and because of the battle raging in front of it, would be blocked off from escape. Would be filled with trapped, frightened people.

The Monarch never does anything without a reason.

Three things happen at once.

Number one: Alex lets the lightning go, but it goes wide, not even singeing him. Monarch smiles pleasantly at him, as if to say,  _ That’s all? _

Number two: Monarch waves a hand. The building’s supports are blown to pieces, and the restaurant- all three stories of it- begins to crumble. The screams are audible. How many people are inside? How many people will be left ance this is over?

Number three: Angelica and Eliza appear at the end of the dark, broken street, matching expressions of determination on their faces. Angelica summons a wall of flame and takes Monarch by surprise; his cape catches on fire, and Alex would laugh at the look on his face if the situation weren’t so desperate. 

But his concentration is broken, and Alex and Herc both stumble forward, the resistance suddenly gone. Monarch shouts something, Alex can’t quite tell what, and retreats, Angelica on his tail. Eliza sprints to them, thorny vines bursting out from the cracks in the pavement in her distress. “We need to get them out of there,” she shouts.

“No shit!” Alex replies, and gets a glare for his efforts. In his defense, it has not been a fantastic day.

Herc is quickest to move, and Alex and Eliza follow. From there, it is a blur, a blur of dust and people scrambling for safety, and they do what they can. Herc is quick to find a place to hold the structure up, preventing further collapse, and that leaves Alex and Eliza to rescue as many people as they can. But it’s not easy; visibility is low, everyone is panicked, and frankly, Alex doesn’t think this can get any worse.

Then, he sees them, and it gets worse. A lot worse. Because that’s James Madison crouched on the floor, and that’s Thomas Jefferson laid out beside him, forehead caked with blood and leg twisted at an awkward angle.

_ What the fuck are you doing here?  _ He wants to scream, and ignores the way the thought is tinged with hysteria.

He crosses the floor, ignoring Eliza’s queries and kicking away the rubble in his path, and he kneels beside them. “You alright?” he asks softly, and Madison scowls at him, a look on his face that Alex didn’t know he was capable of.

“What does it look like?” he snaps, and yeah, okay, stupid question. Because Madison looks awful, bloody and battered and dusty, and Jefferson isn’t conscious, or doesn’t appear to be at least. Probably a good thing- that leg is definitely broken.

_ He wanted my advice on restaurants earlier,  _ he dimly recalls.  _ I threw the nearest heavy object at him. _

“You’re going to be okay,” he says, because it’s all he can say. Any other platitudes would be meaningless, and he has to remember that Hurricane doesn’t know these people, isn’t their… friend? Enemy? Whatever their relationship is.

Madison laughs, grim and a little hysterical, and that’s when Alex realizes he’s pressing down on Jefferson’s shoulder, blood welling up between his fingers, and that an identical wound is beginning to bloom on his own shoulder, staining his suit a dark red.

“How long until the first responders get here?” Madison demands, and he has to shake himself back into awareness. He frowns, remembering what Maria said about the police blockade.

“Soon, I hope,” he replies, “but for now? We’re it.” He glances back over to Eliza, who is helping a woman and child make their way through the rubble.

Madison swears, his eyes wide and scared, and the wound in his shoulder begins to practically gush. And as that happens, Jefferson all but stops bleeding.

Alex connects the dots.

“You can heal people,” he says.

Madison’s expression twists, but he doesn’t deny it. “I would have thought it was obvious,” he mutters. “There’s a reason why I’m sick all the time.”

“You take on the injuries of other people.”

Madison shrugs, and then winces at the pain it causes. “Again, I thought it was obvious.”

“Why would it be-” And it hits him, because the other day, his ankle only stopped hurting once he was at the office. And around that time, Madison started limping. “You-”

“I haven’t told anyone, and I don’t plan to,” Madison says, and Alex jerks back, because of all the people he has ever considered might find out, Madison has never been among them. “But you haven’t exactly been subtle, coming in with injuries every other day of the week.”

Alex closes his eyes for a moment. Breathes. This is fine. He’s fine. “How long have you known?” he asks, and Madison stares at him.

“Is this really the best time for this?”

Perhaps not. Because he can hear them; the first responders are finally here, bringing their sirens and their shouting and more people onto a scene that is honestly already too crowded. His breathing quickens, and he realizes that he’s been getting closer to the edge of a panic attack for the past few minutes, and this might be the thing that finally pushes him over the edge. Maybe Madison can sense it, or maybe it’s just that obvious, but either way, the man shoots him a look.

“You should get out of here,” he says. “Unless you really feel like dealing with the police right now.”

He hesitates, looking the two of them over. They don’t look alright, especially Jefferson, but they don’t look like they’re about to keel over, which is good, because despite their differences, Alex would never actively wish serious harm on either of them. At least, nothing more serious than a stapler-induced concussion.

Perhaps that’s what is making him so panicked. This is the first time things have become this personal with the Monarch, the first time that people he knows and cares for have been affected by his mission to take him down. The first time his friends have gotten hurt, injured without knowing what they were walking into, without being aware of the risks.

This is… his fault.

“Jesus Christ, Hamilton,” Madison says. “ _ Go. _ ”

And Alex does. He leaves, stumbles outside, takes off. He doesn’t even check for his friends, doesn’t listen to his comm, doesn’t think about anything but the overwhelming, pressing need to get out.

He just goes.

He needs to not be here right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I suppose this is the point at which I say that I can no longer guarantee quick updates? Yikes. Sorry this one took, like, a month and a half. I have so much shit going on right now, it isn't even funny. But I can tell you that updates will come. At a snail's pace? Maybe. But I have this whole fic planned out, so I'll be damned if I abandon it. I care too much about these losers.
> 
> Madison's powers are confirmed now... not that most of y'all didn't guess it, but yeah, that's why the ankle thing happened. Also, Alex is... not really okay right now. Things'll get better though, I promise... maybe...
> 
> Also! In answering an ask meme on [tumblr](http://angelsanddemonsandducks.tumblr.com/), I have written an AU for this AU. Essentially, what would happen if Ham and Burr weren't oblivious idiots? It's not canon, but if you're hankering for a big reveal scene, it might help tide you over until the real thing. It's [here](http://angelsanddemonsandducks.tumblr.com/post/157153654599/100-write-an-au-of-an-au-it-can-be-yours-or), if you'd like. :)


	9. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aaron has a weird dream, a slight romantic crisis, and a headache. Not necessarily in that order.

He realizes he is dreaming when he opens his eyes to find himself sitting in his favorite armchair, next to a fireplace that was not present in his apartment when he first went to sleep. He stares at the fire for a moment, mesmerized by the way it crackles and shifts in a comforting dance. Then, he looks around. The colors are muted, dull and yet somehow warm, but his surroundings are both familiar and unknown to him, a mixture of his own apartment and a place in which he has never been. The details are fuzzy, the edges of every piece of furniture blurring as his eyes pass over them, and he wonders whether these discrepancies are of his own imagination or something else entirely.

His gaze lands on the coffee table by his arm. There is a book within arm’s reach, but it is not the copy of  _ War and Peace _ he placed there the previous night. Instead, it is a copy of  _ Les Misérables _ . In the original French.

He doesn’t speak French. At least, not well. Strange.

“You should not be here,” someone says, and he looks up. There is someone standing in the hallway, leaning against the doorframe. Their brow is furrowed, and they look about as confused as he feels. Though the more he stares, the more indefinite their facial features become, the more their identity is clouded. 

“I don’t know where here is,” he admits, and frowns at the way his voice seems to echo, as if it comes from across a vast canyon. As he speaks, the entire room blurs, becoming fuzzy and grey for the span of a few seconds before solidifying again.

“Do you not?” the person asks softly. There is the barest hint of an accent in their voice that he cannot place. “That is very interesting. You are here by accident, then?” They pause. “Or perhaps I am here by accident? Difficult to say.” Another pause. “I suspect the latter.”

He shrugs. Whatever this person wants to think is no concern of his.

This person… the nagging sense of familiarity at the back of his mind suggests that he knows them. But how, he cannot recall.

The person sighs and walks forward, slumping onto the couch opposite him. “Of all people, it had to be you,” they mutter. “Nothing is going right lately.”

He tries to summon up even the barest hint of concern. It doesn’t quite work. Like everything else here, his emotions are faint, distant. It is an almost welcome reprieve. “What’s the matter?” he asks anyway, more to fill the silence than anything else.

Normally, he would be quite content with silence. But there is a reason he is here. He can feel it, no matter how little sense that makes. And that reason lies in this other person here with him. He needs to keep them talking.

“You really don’t remember?” they reply, leaning forward, tension visible in their posture. “Truly? That is very, very odd.” They shake their head. “How are you even here? This shouldn’t be possible. Unless you’re psychic. Are you psychic?”

He considers this for a moment. He doesn’t think so. Sensing emotions is different from reading minds. He has never heard the thoughts of another person, so he doesn’t think that counts. And yet, the person’s face shifts in a way that, despite its blurriness, suggests shock.

“You can…” they start, and then break themself off. “And you’ve been hiding it by…” They inhale sharply. “Burr, that’s not good for you.”

He sends them an irritated glance. A figment of his subconscious has no business telling him what is good for him and what isn’t. This is a dream, after all, and a boring, nonsensical one at that.

But… he knows this person. Who are they? The answer is within his grasp, but it alludes him again and again and again, no matter how hard he reaches for it.

“I’m not a figment of…” They trail off, shaking their head in frustration. “Nevermind. You think this is a dream. That’s fine. But Burr, for just one minute of your life, I need you to listen to me. This could be life or death.” They slide off the couch and move closer, coming to kneel by his feet. He watches them with both a faint stirring of curiosity and a far away sense of alarm. “You must tell Alexander,” they say, each word enunciated clearly and carefully and tinted with desperation, “you must tell him that if he’s not careful, he’s going to  _ die.  _ I  _ saw _ it. He will die, and the Monarch will destroy everything. He is mad, Burr. There will be no stopping him.” They take in a shuddering breath. “Will you tell him?”

He nods. He doesn’t see any reason why not, though he doesn’t see what good telling Alex will do. Unless…

“And another thing. I know who the Monarch is. We have all been blind, do you understand me? He is hiding in plain sight.” As they continue to speak, the room surrounding the both of them begins to dissolve away into grey nothingness. When they notice this, an expression of pure panic crosses their face, and they swear up a storm. Or at least, he thinks they do. It is becoming impossible to tell, their words dying, fading into the abyss before they can reach him.

And then, he is falling backward, and down and down and down. Frantic shouts ring in his ears, frantic shouts and a name that stays on the edge of his memory, just out of reach.

* * *

 

Aaron wakes with a strangled yell building in his throat, cold sweat dripping down his face, and a headache pounding behind his eyes. He takes a moment to orient himself; he is lying in his own bed, tangled in the haphazard covers. The lamp by his bedside is still shining brightly. He breathes deeply, hoping that this will calm the frenzied pounding of his heart. It only works somewhat, and so he maneuvers himself into a sitting position, knowing that he won’t be getting any more sleep tonight.

What was he dreaming about to cause such a reaction? He remembers a faded room, and the presence of someone else by his side, but the intricacies slip through his fingers like so much smoke, leaving him with only a vague sense of urgency. Snatches of a fragmented conversation float away on the air, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. Was there something he needed to do? To tell someone? For a moment, he thinks he almost remembers, but then the migraine rears its ugly head, bringing with it a rolling wave of nausea.

_ It’s too soon for this,  _ he thinks dimly.  _ Too soon for another one.  _ The last time this happened was only a few days ago; normally, he has a respite of weeks between episodes, but it seems that this time, this is not the case.

Another wave of pain, and he places his head in one hand and groans, his other hand fumbling around for the light switch. Turning the lamp off doesn’t help much, but it’s better than nothing. His room is plunged into darkness, and his headache eases, if only a little bit.

And right at that moment, because the universe seems to hate him, there is a clattering sound outside on the fire escape, loud enough to be heard through several walls, clear enough to drive a nail through his skull. He bites his lip and considers pretending that he heard nothing, to roll over in bed and attempt to doze off once again, despite his doubts that he’ll get any more sleep tonight. The idea has merit.

But he knows that he won’t. There is only one person who would pull this sort of stunt at this ungodly hour, and Aaron cannot bring himself to leave him outside.

He tries not to examine the reason for that too closely.

He stumbles out of bed, just barely managing to catch himself on the wall before his feet give out from under him. Circumstances are far from ideal, and he intends to give Hurricane a piece of his mind for putting him through this, but he has committed to this course of action, and he is not about to let a goddamn headache prevent him from dictating his own life.

It is with this thought in mind that he manages to make his way out to the fire escape. Sure enough, Hurricane is sitting slumped against the railing, his knees drawn up against his chest. Aaron glares. “What the hell are you doing here?” he grits out.

Hurricane lifts his head a little. “I’m sorry,” he rasps. “I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.”

Aaron frowns at that and takes half a minute to study the man. Hurricane’s posture is tense, curled in on himself, and he is trembling, if only slightly. His hands are clasped into fists in a way that, if he weren’t wearing gloves, would have his fingernails digging bloody crescents into his skin. 

His headache spikes again, but he manages to push it aside, if only for a moment. He moves closer, kneeling close to the other man, but not so close so as to make him feel threatened. He has a feeling that at the moment, that would be a very, very bad idea. “What happened?” he asks, taking great care to remove any hint of irritation from his voice. Expressing his annoyance right now probably wouldn’t help with… whatever this is.

Hurricane laughs, a strangled, choking sound that dies off into something more like a sob. “People got hurt,” he replies, voice a strangled whisper. “People I  _ know _ got hurt, and they weren’t even supposed to be there, but they were, and it was  _ my fault  _ and I don’t know what I’m  _ doing  _ anymore and I’m probably doing more harm than good and what if it happens again I don’t want anybody to get hurt I can’t  _ lose _ them, what if-” And his breath hitches, and he cuts himself off, burying his head between his legs. 

Aaron blinks.  _ What? _

Of all the things he expected, it wasn’t this.

“Are they going to be alright?” he asks, scooting a little closer. He isn’t good at this, he knows, he’s never been good at this, but the man is all but sobbing on his fire escape. He can’t just leave him here, no matter how wise it might be to do so.

“I don’t know,” Hurricane murmurs. “I think so? I had to leave.” He hugs himself tighter. “God, I’m such a mess.” The anger and self-loathing is clear in his voice, and to Aaron, it strikes uncomfortably close to home.

“I don’t know what happened,” he says, “but I doubt it was your fault. The Monarch seems to delight in this sort of wanton destruction.”

“But if I hadn’t shown up and-”

“But nothing,” Aaron retorts. “He would have done it whether you showed up or not. You know that. Don’t forget, in the beginning, he showed up before you did. You respond to him and not the other way around. Whatever happened, it couldn’t have been your fault, and you shouldn’t blame yourself for it. That won’t do anyone any good, least of all yourself.”

Muffled laughter. “I mean, if you put it that way.” Hurricane shivers, lifting his head. “That doesn’t change the fact that they got hurt.” His voice is still made up of so many shards of glass, and Aaron shakes his head.

“You can’t dwell on that. It’s… honestly, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it’s all but unavoidable in these situations. Every time a new villain pops up, people get hurt, and it’s their fault, not the fault of the people trying to help them. You can’t save everybody.” He sighs, and softens his voice a little, noting the way Hurricane seems to be giving him his undivided attention. “I don’t entirely approve of your methods, but be that as it may, you’re doing far more good for this city than harm. Don’t let defeats set you back. You’re worth more than that.”

“Am I?” Hurricane asks, small and lost, and Aaron’s heart starts pounding in time with his head. Impulsively, his hand shoots out and grabs the other man’s wrist.  _ I am the one thing in life I can control _ , some corner of his mind tries to remind him, but the rest of him isn’t listening, adrenaline pumping through his veins and thunder roaring in the back of his skull.

“ _ Yes _ ,” he insists, surprised by his own vehemence, and then Hurricane leans forward and tugs his mask down and, in a movement too quick for Aaron to process, smashes their lips together, and then Aaron doesn’t think of anything at all. His eyes slip closed, and he returns the kiss eagerly. Hurricane’s lips are soft and greedy and searching, but he can give as good as he gets. There is an intensity here, an intensity that he has not felt for a very, very long time, and after a moment, he realizes that his mental walls have crumbled and fallen, and they are sharing in each other’s every emotion, every fleeting moment of passion and desperation and determination as they ebb and flow like the tide. Or perhaps more accurately, like a tidal wave. And for a second, a single second out of what seems like forever, he imagines the face under the mask, the face that would be so easy to look at right now if only his eyes would cooperate with him. Swollen lips and messy hair and dark, deep, clever eyes and-

He derails that train of thought before it can go any further.

That same corner of his mind shouts at him to stop this, to put a halt to this foolishness before it is too late. But he doesn’t listen. 

Besides, Hurricane doesn’t seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t care.

It feels like an eternity before they pull back, Hurricane pulling his mask back over his face before he can catch so much as a glimpse of his features. They stare at each other for a moment, neither of them wanting to break the silence that has fallen, before Hurricane sighs heavily and slumps forward against him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have done that.” He sounds so, so very tired, and Aaron winces, sense slowly returning to him by degrees.

“I’m sorry too,” he replies, just as quietly, because how could he be anything but? Hurricane is exhausted and desperate and upset, and how did he respond to that? By practically taking advantage of him. He doesn’t seem to be angry, but it will be far better for both of them if this doesn’t continue.

Obviously.

It shouldn’t hurt. 

But it does.

His lips are still tingling.

_ I am the one thing in life I can control,  _ he thinks, and this time, even as Hurricane’s emotions (melancholy, dripping with fatigue) press up against his own, he listens.

The walls are easy to put back up again. He has been doing it all his life, after all.

But oh, how he wishes he didn’t have to.

His lips are  _ still _ tingling, and at this moment, he wants nothing more than to grab him by the shoulders and kiss him again.

He pulls away, holding Hurricane at arm’s length. “Are you going to be alright?” he asks, and Hurricane laughs.

“I’m going to have to be,” he says, and while it’s not the answer he hoped for, it’s probably the best he’s going to get under the circumstances. Hurricane certainly doesn’t seem alright, but what else can he do to amend that? He’s failed in his attempts thus far, and he wants to avoid making things worse.

But as Hurricane staggers to his feet, swaying unsteadily, he knows that there aren’t many ways he  _ could _ make things worse. He rises as well, putting out a hand to steady the man.

“I’m not letting you fly off in this condition,” he states, aiming for a neutral tone and almost succeeding. 

Hurricane looks at him, his eyes almost visible under the brim of his hood. “My condition is fine,” he says shortly. “You going to try and stop me?” The low register of his synthesized voice makes him sound a hair away from threatening, but Aaron does not allow himself to be moved.

“I would hope I wouldn’t have to,” he replies. “Frankly, though, I don’t trust you to get yourself across the city in this state. Everything else aside, you’re obviously exhausted. It would be irresponsible of me to let you go.”

Hurricane chuckles. “Irresponsible,” he mutters, only a little bitterly. “Well, we can’t have that. The world might explode.” He hesitates for a stretch, and Aaron begins to think that he’s going to leave anyway; after all, he doesn’t have any way to keep him here, not really. But then, he sighs. “Alright,” he agrees. “Fine. But only because I know you’d be insufferable about it if I said no.” He takes a step forward, only to almost collapse, and Aaron has to react quickly to prevent the man from taking a spill.

“Did you honestly think you were going to be able to get yourself home like this?” he demands, rearranging the superhero so that he has an arm around his shoulder.

“No harm in trying,” is the reply, and Aaron rolls his eyes.

“Until you go splat across the pavement,” he retorts, and all but drags him inside. “Forgive me for saying so, but I don’t think even you could walk away from that uninjured.” He is easier to maneuver than he anticipated; Hurricane is thin and lean and seems to weigh next to nothing. He takes a moment to wonder if the man is eating properly; probably not, if his attitude toward self-care is anything to go by. 

Hurricane is asleep the moment Aaron dumps him on the couch.

He stands there for a moment, staring at the unconscious superhero. It would be so easy, he thinks, so simple to look behind the mask and hood, right here and now. To discover his identity. And even as the thought occurs to him, he knows he won’t. It’s not right, for one thing, and it would surely break all of the trust that has slowly been growing between them. 

Another thought occurs to him, a more pressing one.

He heads back towards his room, grabbing his phone as he does so. Hamilton’s name is about midway down his contacts list; the last time he texted the man was a few months ago, about a case. They don’t make a habit of communicating, though he has to wonder if that might change. They’ve certainly been more friendly with each other recently.

He recalls the shock he felt when Hamilton asked him to call him Alex. Shock mingled with pleasant surprise, he believes it was, and a warm feeling pools in his gut for no reason at all.

_ Your… friend… turned up at my place,  _ he texts, before he can think better of it. He hadn’t heard Hurricane trying to contact anybody, so for all he knows, the man’s friends are worried sick.  _ He’s fine. Just tired. _

He pauses.  _ I’m letting him use my couch, _ he adds a moment later.

It is several minutes before Alex replies, and when he does, it is a single word.  _ Thanks. _

He stares at it for a moment, wondering if more is forthcoming. Nothing else pops up, and he frowns. Alex is not one for single-word replies.  _ You’re not Hamilton,  _ he types out, conviction growing with each passing second.

This time, the reply is quicker.  _ Nope. Laurens. Alex’s sleeping, finally.  _ And then:  _ He’s really at your place? And he’s alright? _

What on earth is John Laurens doing with Alex’s phone at one in the morning? He considers a few reasons, and finds that he does not like any of them. He didn’t think they were in a relationship, but it’s looking more and more…

He shouldn’t care. Why does he care?

_ Burr? You still there? _

With a start, he realizes he’s left his response too long.  _ Yes, sorry. He’s fine, or at least, as fine as he can be. I’m sure things will be better in the morning.  _ He hesitates.  _ What are you doing with Alex’s phone? _

The reply, when it comes, is not what he was anticipating.

_ Oh, so it’s Alex now is it? _

_ You feeling threatened? _

_ Dont worry _

_ The boy’s all yours _

_ ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) _

Aaron decides to turn his phone off. It isn’t that he’s bothered by the insinuation, he’s just… too tired to put up with Laurens’ shit right now, and…

The insinuation bothers him. For reasons he is  _ not _ examining.

Though he can’t help but recall just who he had imagined under Hurricane’s mask.

_ Stop. We’re not doing this right now. _

He places the phone on his bedside table and sighs, putting his head in his hands. What is his life coming to? A few weeks ago, everything was normal, if dull. There was a routine, and he stuck to it. And now, he has superheroes kissing him on his fire escape and taking up his couch, and everyone around him is being confusing, and it seems as if he is losing more and more control with every day that passes. His control is something he has always prided himself on. Without it, who is he?

… He really is too tired for this. Right now, he’s an absolute mess that frankly cannot be bothered to sit down and process most of what’s happened tonight. Sleep is a welcome distraction, and he gives himself up to it gladly.

He does so to the remembered sensation of warm lips on his, and the distant realization that his headache is long gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John ships it. And so does Aaron, he just refuses to admit it to himself.
> 
> When will everything be figured out? I don't know at this point, honestly. I mean, I have an outline and everything, but it's looking more and more like we're gonna veer off course, so... who knows? I certainly don't.
> 
> My [tumblr](http://angelsanddemonsandducks.tumblr.com/) is here if you wanna chat or send me a prompt or anything! :)


	10. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alex stresses. So much.

Once he wakes up, it takes a full minute for the panic to set in.

At first, he is warm, warm and comfortable in a way he hasn’t felt since before the whole Monarch fiasco began. And he feels surprisingly well-rested, too, a rarity for him in general. The cushions underneath his back are soft and yielding, and it is so very, very tempting to turn over and go back to sleep.

Then, last night’s memories slam into him, and he sits bolt upright, barely noticing the way his muscles protest. There was the Monarch and Madison and then, exhausted and halfway to a panic attack, he came here, because to his clouded mind, Aaron meant safety, and then he talked entirely too much, and then-

Oh god, he  _ kissed _ him, what was he thinking? 

_ Not straight, that’s for sure, _ some part of him says. It sounds like John.

Alex moans and buries his face in his hands. He is never going to be able to look Burr in the eye again after this. Though, it hadn’t seemed like the man objected too terribly much. His thoughts drift back to the moment, to Aaron’s lips on his, still and shocked before pressing into the contact just as eagerly, for what seemed like an eternity-

He forces himself to stop. Now is not the time.

He is still wearing his full Hurricane regalia, and he is thankful that Aaron doesn’t seem to have made any attempts to discover his identity during the night. Not that he thought he would, but it’s still a weight off his mind. Though, he is somewhat surprised that he hasn’t figured it out by now; he’s certainly fucked up enough that Aaron has more than enough pieces of the puzzle to put together.

_ Don’t focus on that right now. It’s too early for this. _ He glances in the direction of Burr’s room. The door is closed, no light seeping from under the crack. Outside, the sun has not yet begun to rise. Most people remain asleep at this hour.

_ But then, I’m not most people. _ Alex smiles grimly and stands, wincing at the pain the action sends shooting through his nerves. He stretches, but that only serves to make his joints pop. Then, he reaches up and turns his comm link back on. It’s time to face the music.

“Hey,” he says. “Anybody awake yet?”

There is no response. He frowns and looks around for a clock. According to the one hanging over Burr’s mantle, it’s 5:34. Early, but not, he thinks, completely unreasonably so. Then again, everyone did have a pretty late night last night---  _ and whose fault is that?  _ he chastises himself--- so he can’t blame them if they’re all still asleep.

And then, there is a crackle on the other end of the line. “Alex?” someone says, and that is Maria’s voice, rough with sleep and stress and worry and who knows what else. Guilt flashes through him, hot and thick and heavy, and he realizes that he never did check in last night, that for all his friends know, he could have been dying in a ditch somewhere.

“Hey,” he replies weakly. “Uh, everything okay over there?”

There is another long pause, and then: “Damn you, Alex,” she snaps. “Do you know how worried we all-” There is the murmur of another voice in the background, and Maria stops, her voice going a little distant. “No, no, I’ve got him on the line, he’s alright,” she says, and then at him: “You are incredibly lucky that Aaron had the idea to text us to let us know where you were.”

A bolt of anxiety strikes him. Did he figure it out after all? “He texted-”

“Well, he texted  _ you _ , actually, but John had your phone.”

He relaxes, and then processes the words. “Wait, John had my phone?” he asks. “What did he say? What did  _ Aaron _ say, actually, now that I think about it, because that might actually-”

“Alex,” Maria says, and there is less anger and more amusement in her tone now. “Nothing damaging. Much. Promise.” Then, there are sounds of a brief scuffle. “Oh, wait, hang on, Eliza wants to-”

And then Eliza’s voice. “Alex? Are you alright?”

He laughs. “Nice to hear from you too. I’m fine.” Not strictly true, but closer than it would have been had he held this conversation last night. Though from Eliza’s silence, she’s still not quite buying it. She’s always been the best at seeing right through his bullshit. “Uh, better than I was. How pissed off is everyone?”

He can hear the frown in her voice when she speaks. “We’re all more worried than anything. We didn’t know what happened, but then…” She pauses. “James Madison texted us last night, from the hospital. He said to tell you that he and Thomas were both going to be alright, if you cared to know, and that you were going to have to do without a safety net for a while.” She sighs. “I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean, but does it make sense to you? … And can we assume that Madison’s in the know?”

“Yes to both,” he confirms. “I mean, I didn’t tell him, though, he figured it out on his own. Uh, somehow.” He keeps his newfound knowledge of Madison’s powers to himself. It is not his secret to share. Though now that his mind is clear, he can look back on all the time he’s known the man, all the times he’s been sick or injured, and wonder just how much of it was actually natural ailment and how much was the afflictions of others.

If he missed something so obvious, what else is he not seeing?

“Somehow,” she repeats. “Sure. Are you coming home this morning?”

He looks down at himself. Somehow, he thinks it wouldn’t go over well if he showed up to work dressed like this. “Yeah, I need to get changed,” he says.

Silence.

“...That’s not what you meant, is it?”

Another sigh. “Alex, we’re all here for you,” she says. She sounds a bit choked up, and his eyes widen, because no. Nope. Eliza can’t cry, the world will literally end if Eliza cries. Why is she crying? Is he making her cry? He really, really doesn’t want that. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know,” he is quick to assure her.

“Then don’t try to do everything on your own. Don’t push us away.”

He freezes, mind whirling. He’s not pushing them away… is he? At least, not on purpose, but… not that he thinks about it, it must be significant that when he needed a safe place, Aaron was the first person he went to. Not back home to any of the others. And really, there’s no logical reason for that, no logical reason why he didn’t turn to his friends for the comfort he needed. Only, he hasn’t turned to them in a long time now, has he? Not for things like this. He’s been too busy playing the hero, pretending to be strong, acting like nothing’s wrong.

He’s had plenty of opportunities to talk to them. He just hasn’t taken them.

“Okay, cutting back in,” Maria says suddenly. “Alex, if you don’t get yourself back here, I’m sure you’re in for a collective ass-kicking. Just come home, alright?”

“I’ll see you guys in a few,” he answers, and flicks his comm off, giving the room around him one last glance. That same copy of  _ War and Peace _ is sitting out on the table, the bookmark placed a little more toward the middle than the last time he saw it. The sparse photographs stare at him; the elderly couple in one of them looks accusing, and he turns away.

He needs to leave, but for some reason, he is loathe to. 

_ I should leave a note or something,  _ he decides.  _ To thank him for the trouble, if nothing else. _

And so he does, finding a pad of paper in the tiny kitchen and scrabbling down a short message, far shorter than he wants. But long missives are a Hamilton trademark, and besides, he doesn’t really have the time. He leaves the note out on the coffee table, where Aaron is sure to see, and then he makes his way back out to the fire escape. The air is cool on his face, and he breathes deeply, turning his face towards his city, relatively quiet for this time in the morning.

And then, he jumps.

* * *

 

He manages to extricate himself eventually, after absorbing all of the scolding and hugs and well-intentioned, smothering worry. He promises himself he’ll talk to them eventually, because he can see now that that is a thing that probably needs to happen. But not at this minute, because if he hangs around any longer, he’s going to be late for work.

And besides, looking around at the evidence of the impromptu sleepover everyone had at his place last night, he can’t bring himself to think past the wave of guilt it summons. They really are worried about him, even though he hasn’t done much of anything lately to deserve that worry, and he doesn’t know how to assuage it. Doesn’t know how he can assure them that everything is alright, or if he should at all, or if trying to do so would just make them all worry more.

With all the lies he’s had to tell recently, he hasn’t realized just how many he’s thrown out unintentionally. How many truths he’s been avoiding.

He shakes his head and jams his hands into his pockets, taking a breath of the crisp morning air. It does wonders for his focus, and he sighs. Thinking about all of his issues won’t help anything right now, not when there’s nothing he can do about them.

About ten minutes before he reaches the office, he remembers to check his phone. And almost keels over and dies on the spot.

Instinctively, he raises his head and looks around, frantically checking to make sure no one’s watching him or reading over his shoulder. He feels his face heating up; he’s certain he’s about as red as a traffic light right now. “What the actual fuck, John,” he mutters, scrolling through the conversation.  _ Nothing damaging, my ass.  _ Aaron had stopped responding after only a few moments, so he has to hope that he didn’t take any of the conversation to heart. Just to cover his bases, though, he pulls up a new message.

_ Heh, sorry about last night. John’s like that, _ he types, and presses send before he can change his mind.

Aaron’s response is almost instantaneous.  _ Where are you? _ he asks instead of responding to Alex’s apology, and Alex frowns.

_ Almost to work. Why? _

_ Get here as soon as you can. Something’s happened. _

Oh, that’s not ominous at all. Alex picks up his pace, and he reaches the office in three minutes instead of five. 

The aura in the lobby is tense and quiet, people speaking in hushed tones or not at all. All heads swivel to look at him when he enters, and then swing away again just as quickly. Had Aaron not texted him, he would have thought it was just the aftermath of Jefferson and Madison getting caught up in last night’s attack. But with the warning, he can tell that there’s something else going on here. The air is thick and oppressive; whatever this feeling is, it’s almost palpable, and he doesn’t like it.

The elevator dings, the noise as loud as a gunshot in the stillness of the room. When the doors open, they reveal Aaron standing there, but he makes no move to exit. Instead, he jerks his head at Alex, motioning for him to come over. He does so, crossing the floor as quickly and unobtrusively as possible. As soon as he is inside, Aaron jams the button to close the doors, and the elevator lurches into motion.

“What’s going on?” Alex asks, partially out of desire to know and partially because being in close quarters with Aaron so suddenly is dredging up memories that he can’t afford to be thinking about right now. Not here, and not as Alex, even if Aaron’s lips are an almost irresistible temptation.

Aaron sighs. “Too much,” he answers, and fixes him with a piercing look. His eyes are captivating, dark and serious and weary. The bags under them suggest that he didn’t get much sleep last night, which Alex is sure is his fault. “Did you watch the news this morning?” Aaron continues, dragging his mind away from his guilt.

He shakes his head. “No, I didn’t have time. Is there something I should know?”

Aaron laughs, but the sound is hollow. “Maybe. Maybe not. Hurricane should definitely know this, though, if he doesn’t already, so…” He trails off for a moment. “How much do you know about the attack on Sam’s Lobster last night?”

He shrugs. “I know the basics. I mean, I wasn’t there, but Monarch attacked, Hurricane and a few others beat him off, but not before the restaurant was destroyed. And Madison and Jefferson were there, and now they’re in the hospital. That’s about it, isn’t it?” Even as he speaks, dread is creeping up his spine, because that is clearly not it, which leaves him wondering what he could possibly have missed.

“It was it for that attack, yes,” Aaron agrees. “But I have reason to believe the attack itself was a distraction.”

He feels his eyes go wide, feels his heart rate almost double. “A distraction,” he repeats, his mouth going dry. “A distraction for what?”

The elevator comes to a stop. The doors open, revealing the hallway that leads to their offices. It is empty save for them, empty, he realizes, because Madison and Jefferson are the only other two who have office space on this floor. Everyone else seems to steer clear, for some reason. Aaron makes no move to step out of the elevator, and after a few moments, the doors close again.

“Benjamin Franklin was killed last night,” Aaron tells him, his gaze holding steady even as Alex’s heart drops into his shoes. “Not many details have been released yet, but rumors are going around that it was a… grisly scene. After everything that’s happened, this can’t be unrelated.”

_ Benjamin Franklin. _ It’s a name that Alex hasn’t heard in a while, though it is no less impacting because of that. The man was one of the original partners of the firm before he retired, was essential in helping Washington break the firm away from George Frederick and his cronies. Alex only met him a few times, but the impression he got was of a jovial old man who enjoyed living life to the fullest degree, one of those types who seemed to be under the impression that they would live forever.

_ He was one of Washington’s closest friends,  _ he remembers, and bites his lip. “How is Washington taking it?” he asks, and Aaron winces.

“No one knows,” he says. “He’s here, but he’s been in his office since he arrived this morning. No one’s seen him.”

Alex leans back against the elevator railing, closing his eyes.  _ He’s lost too much to this _ , he thinks. First Lafayette, and now Franklin. For all that he wants to protect people from the Monarch’s rampage, he hasn’t been doing a very good job of it lately.

_ Who the hell is Monarch that he has such a grudge against Washington? _

“I need to tell him,” he says, and opens his eyes. Aaron is still staring at him, but if there is emotion in his eyes, he can’t read it. “He has a right to know what’s going on.”

“He’ll think it’s his fault. You know what type of person he is. He won’t show it, but he’ll blame himself.”

Alex winces, because he can’t deny it. “I know,” he replies. “Believe me, I know. But what’s the alternative? At least this way, he can warn the other people in his life about the threat. He can start taking precautions, for them if for no one else.” He doesn’t voice the nagging thought in the back of his brain:  _ if I’d told him earlier, would Ben Franklin still be alive?  _ Even so, he can’t force the thought away, and from the look Aaron gives him, he can tell.

“You can’t blame this on yourself either,” he insists. “You couldn’t have known this would happen, and who knows if it would have changed anything anyway. This is the Monarch’s fault, not yours.” The words echo what he said to him on the fire escape last night, what seems like a lifetime ago, and despite himself, Alex feels a little bit of tension drain from his shoulders.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I guess.” He shoots Aaron a look. “Will you come with me? As moral support?”

Aaron hesitates for a moment, something like indecision flashing in his eyes. Then, he nods once, sharply. “Alright,” he says. “But I don’t know how much good I’ll be.”

_ More than you know _ , he almost replies, but doesn’t. “Thanks,” he says instead, and jabs at the button that will open the elevator doors perhaps a little harder than necessary. They slide apart, and he steps through, Aaron close on his heels. 

It doesn’t take them long to get to Washington's office; he has been here so many times that he could probably take the turns in his sleep. Of course, he usually walks this route under different circumstances, with signed papers in his hand, perhaps, or with a furious Jefferson stalking ahead of him. Not like this.

The door is not embellished with anything more than a simple golden nameplate, and he stops in front of it for a moment to breathe. He senses rather than sees Aaron’s hand hovering near his shoulder.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks quietly. He pulls his hand back to his side, and Alex feels a vague sense of loss. He shrugs.

“No, not really,” he admits. “But I honestly don’t think I’ve got a choice.” And he raises his hand to knock.

* * *

 

Washington lets them in without any fanfare or protest. There is no surprise in his face, only resignation and a pervading weariness. Someone who didn’t know the man well wouldn’t see the grief hiding behind his eyes, but Alex does. He should probably be taking the day off. Most anyone else in his situation would be.

But then, Washington is not most people. He never has been.

Washington sits behind his desk, and Alex and Aaron sit on two of the chairs across from it. Alex is perched on the edge of the cushion, while Aaron carries himself normally--- though Alex can see the tension running through him, the tension that signifies that really, he would rather be anywhere else. He can’t blame him.

“I assume you two have something to tell me,” Washington says. His voice is even, his fingers folded on the desk in front of him. There is paperwork underneath his elbows, but none of it has been filled in. There is a half-empty tumbler of scotch partially hidden behind his laptop. Alex pretends not to notice, just as he is sure Washington pretends not to notice him pretending not to notice it. Because drawing any attention to it will only serve to make everything even more awkward, and might actually result in Washington throwing him out of the room.

“Yes, sir,” he replies with a nod. “Though---” He exchanges a glance with Aaron--- “if this isn’t a good time, we could always come back later.” This isn’t him trying to take the easy way out of this conversation; or at least, that’s what he tells himself, even if he is beginning to have doubts as to how wise this course of action is.

“It’s not a good time,” Washington confirms grimly. “But I doubt there will be a better one. Go on.” In this moment, he looks every inch the war veteran he is, ramrod straight posture and squared shoulders. Alex knows that this means he is preparing himself for whatever he is about to be told.

He hesitates for one more moment, swallows. Wonders if it’s not too late to back out. Spilling the beans, if only partially, is an easier concept to swallow when it’s only hypothetical, and Washington has already been dealt one too many blows this morning. But Aaron is a steady presence at his side, an unwavering rock, and having him there makes everything easier.

So he tells him. He tells him as much as he can without revealing his identity. In a way, it’s a relief to get it all off his chest. Aaron interjects only rarely, and when he does, his voice is quiet and calm.

When they are finished, there is silence for a long moment. And then, Washington says: “This can’t change anything.”

Of all the responses he had been expecting, this was not one of them. “Sir?”

Washington steeples his fingers, places them near the bridge of his nose. His eyes are now unreadable. “Hamilton, have you been paying attention to the issues we’ve been having with Frederick lately? Any blood in the water and he’ll move in like a shark. He’s been trying to destabilize the firm since we broke away, and he’ll take any excuse he can find to sink us. He’s already trying to steal clients. What damage would he be able to do if this got out?”

A logical response. Almost too logical. Washington has always been very, very good at compartmentalizing. Still, though. “That doesn’t change the fact that it’s happening,” he replies softly, and the man’s expression cracks a little.

“I’ll warn anyone who might be a target,” Washington says. “Besides that, there’s not much else I can do, is there?” His words are a dismissal, but they are also a warning, and Alex hears both loud and clear.  _ Don’t screw up _ is the underlying tone, and Alex can’t blame him, because there is simply so much at risk. He has to be careful with how he proceeds from here on out, because it is not only Washington at stake here; the entire firm is in danger of collapse as well.

And it certainly won’t help matters if word gets out that Washington is being targeted by a supervillain, or that his underlings are working with a vigilante. Either piece of news could sink them.

He stands, and Aaron stands with him.

“I suppose not, sir,” he admits, slowly making his way over to the door. He hopes that Washington can read his acquiescence. “But… sir, be careful? Please?”

Washington smiles, but there is no mirth in it. “I could say the same to you,” he returns, and Alex freezes, because there is no way he’s imagining the bite, the loaded weight, in those words. He blinks and stares, and Washington returns his gaze evenly, but there is a light in his eyes that leaves him with no doubt. He knows. Not everything, perhaps. But more than Alex has said, more than he wanted to let on. He knows that his role is bigger than he has revealed, may even have guessed that he’s Hurricane.

Could he know about…?

He thinks of Lafayette, comatose and alone in a sterile, blank hospital room. His fault. But Washington would hardly hold back his thoughts on the matter if he blamed him for it.

Not that it stops him from blaming himself.

“I will, sir,” he manages after a conspicuously long pause. And he makes as if to leave.

“And, Alex?”

He stops.

“Sir?”

His gaze has turned cold. “See that no one disturbs me for the next few hours.”

Alex can only nod. “Yes, sir.” The door swings shut behind him. 

There is a moment of silence.

“Well,” Aaron says dryly. “I think that could have gone better.”

Alex laughs. And he doesn’t stop until they’re both back in the elevator, until Aaron is looking at him with more concern than anything, until he feels himself start to shake and has to put an arm against the wall to steady himself. It is at that point that he manages to quiet himself, though the overwhelming feeling of hysteria does not leave.

It’s all going to come to a head soon, he can tell. The only question is whether or not he can make it to the end. Whether or not he’ll crack first.

_ Well, _ he thinks, suppressing another round of inexplicable and mildly inappropriate giggling.  _ Only time will tell.  _ And the elevator grinds to a halt on their floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that happened. I'm honestly not satisfied with this chapter, but it's been two months since my last update and I just really wanted to move the story along. We're starting to inch towards the climax and I'm honestly a little excited.
> 
> And also... guys. _Guys._ Over 500 kudos? I am overwhelmed you have no idea. And thank you so much for your patience and all of your lovely comments. I don't normally reply because I get stressed and overthink it and panic just a little bit, but I read each and every one and they all give me warm fuzzy feelings and I just love you all so much!!!
> 
> Hopefully now that school's out I'll be able to keep to a more frequent update schedule. Until next time my friends!


	11. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aaron takes stock and comes to the edge of several important realizations. Almost.

After they talk to Washington, and after he is safely ensconced within the four walls of his office, the door closed, his laptop open in front of him but not turned on, he takes a few moments to review the past few days, to make sure that he has processed everything. Because at this point, he is certain that he has become involved in something much larger than him, and for once, Aaron is at a loss as to what to do next.

So, here is what he knows.

The entire city has become the battleground between two empowered people: the Monarch and Hurricane. Monarch has some sort of grudge against Washington, and to that purpose he has killed several innocent people and attacked various venues throughout the city. Hurricane and his group of friends are determined to stop him. All of their identities are unknown, at least as far as the public is concerned.

As if that’s not enough, Hurricane, for whatever reason, has been showing up on his fire escape during the past week. The first time was an accident, but since then, there have been more visits, definitely on purpose. And last night… last night, he kissed him. Or perhaps the other way around. At this point, he can barely remember. There was definitely kissing, though. And no matter how hard he tries to deny it to himself, he knows that he wants to do it again.

(Which is confusing, to say the least, because he was beginning to think he was developing feelings in another direction entirely.

He also thinks that if he tells Theo any of this, he is going to bear the brunt of several minutes of gale-force laughter. Probably well-deserved.)

And then there is Alex. Alex, who is, apparently, working with Hurricane. Alex, who is looking more and more tired and defeated with each passing day. Alex, whose desperation and anxiety has grown to the point where Aaron can feel it, however faintly, pressing up against his shields, like a constant itch.

This is not good, for several reasons. For one thing, he is becoming increasingly tempted to let his walls down, to use his own abilities to calm him, to reassure him. Which he promised long ago that he would never do. He can’t let himself interfere with other people’s emotions. It’s a gross invasion of privacy.

(He blames at least part of his slipping control on last night’s events. Because even though he knows he shouldn’t have let himself go like that, it had felt so right that in the moment, he couldn’t stop himself.

And now, he wants what he can’t have.)

And… he’s not stupid. He is very aware that his attitude towards his powers stems at least partially from his childhood. Comes from his grandparents spitting venom at him, comes from his sister’s tearstained face when he was only trying to make her happy. He knows that he has been told all his life that he shouldn’t use his abilities, first by his family and then by the rest of society, and he has been content to wait until he is told otherwise.

But now, there is a part of him that rails against this idea, that wants him to be who he is unapologetically and damn the consequences. He’s not sure who to blame for it, Alex or Hurricane. Perhaps both.

(Perhaps himself.)

In any case, the thoughts don’t go away, not matter how hard he tries to ignore them. And perhaps this is why he does it; perhaps the safety and isolation of his office convinces him that there would be no harm in it, perhaps he feels like he has something to prove.

He lowers his walls. Just slightly, but it is enough. It is the first time he has done so deliberately since he was ten years old. He does not extend his range far; he keeps to the building itself, and he is careful not to allow himself to influence the people he senses.

A few floors above him, there is a concentration of grief and anger. The emotions feel thick and heavy; if he had to associate it with a color, he would pick black and navy blues. The location corresponds with Washington’s office, and he cannot find it in himself to be surprised. No man takes the death of a close friend well, and no man could be as put together about it as Washington appeared to be during their meeting.

Scattered all throughout the building are smaller pockets of feeling, flashes, if there is anything at all. He senses them, but he doesn’t linger. They are unremarkable sensations belonging to unknown people who he frankly doesn’t particularly care about.

And then, elsewhere on his floor: emotions too strong to possibly ignore. For a moment, he allows himself to be flooded by them, and they leave him breathless. He can barely sort through them all; there is desperation and hope and anger and determination and a deep, bone-aching fatigue all at once, and he wonders how Alex is able to stand it, able to stand his ground against the force of it, the  _ rawness _ of it.

Because it is Alex. There’s no one else on his floor, and even if there was, there’s no one else he knows that is capable of maintaining himself in the midst of such confusion.

Oddly enough, the flavor of his emotions feels familiar in a way he can’t place. He has felt Alex’s emotions before, of course, that day that Alex helped him home. But that was accidental and brief and hardly worth remembering. There is something else going on here, something else that he can’t place.

He shakes his head and sighs. He brings his walls back up, cutting off the flow of emotion, and oddly enough, he only feels a little bit of guilt for bringing them down in the first place.

And then, the thought occurs to him, and as ridiculous as it seems, he can’t shake it aside. 

(There is a part of him that whispers that really, it isn’t ridiculous at all.

He just doesn’t want to admit it. Doesn’t want to look too closely. Because that would mean facing the consequences.)

* * *

 

He decides to walk Alex home. This is probably something he would have done regardless of any suspicions that may or may not be forming in the back of his mind. The fact is that Alex hasn’t been acting like himself lately, and frankly, Aaron is worried.

He walks the short distance to his office as soon as he is done with work for the day, preparing for a fight. Hamilton never goes home before seven, and usually even later. There have been times in the past where Aaron is fairly certain that Alex stayed the night at the firm, working away until the small hours of the morning.

So, when he knocks and enters, he expects to find Alex as busy as he usually is, fingers flying across the keys of his laptop and brow scrunched in concentration. He expects to have to coax and cajole and pry him away. What he does not expect to find is Alex already in the midst of packing up, sliding his laptop inside of his briefcase, muttering to himself.

He blinks, hard and fast. No, the sight is still there.

“Ready to go?” he asks, at a loss for anything else. He’s not sure how to broach the topic; Alex seems more distracted than usual, and he’s not even sure that he would acknowledge it if he tried to press. As it is, the man only gives him a passing glance.

“Hmm,” he mumbles, and grabs a file seemingly at random, stuffing it away. This continues for several minutes before Aaron clears his throat.

“Alex,” he says, and Alex jolts, eyes coming into focus for the first time since he entered.

“What?” he asks. “Oh, right, yeah, I’m ready. You didn’t have to wait for me.”

Aaron frowns and shakes his head. “It was no trouble,” he replies. “And besides--” He checks his watch-- “Alex, you realize it’s only 5:20, right?”

Alex cocks his head. “Is it really?” he says. “Huh. Felt like it was later.” He snaps his briefcase closed. “Right, then. Let’s go.”

They make their way out of the building in a silence that dances on the line between companionable and uncomfortable. Aaron studies the other man as they walk, trying to be as unobtrusive about it as possible. The bags under his eyes are even deeper and darker than they usually are, and his skin has a slightly sallow cast to it, as if he’s sick. Though, that may just be the lighting. His expression is almost vacant, and his eyes are distant, as if he is looking at something a thousand miles away.

All of this only serves to strengthen his concern, and suspicion wriggles insistently at the back of his mind, no matter how hard he tries to quiet it.

Because it fits, mostly, no matter how hard he wants to ignore it. The facts would fit.

He won’t ask, though. He won’t ask until he is certain. This is not a topic to bring up causally, not an accusation to level lightly. And besides, the balance and understanding, the  _ friendship _ that exists between them is too new, too fragile. He is loathe to disrupt it with something like this.

_ Hey, Alex,  _ he imagines asking,  _ did you, by any chance, kiss me last night on my fire escape? Have you, by any chance, illegally been patrolling the city every night and also getting yourself nearly killed by a crazed supervillain? _

Right. That would go great. What is it that Alex said the other day?  _ Consequences if I’m wrong, consequences if I’m right. _ Or something like that. An apt description of so many things in his life these days.

He is so lost in his own thoughts that he doesn’t see the man standing there until they’ve nearly run him over.

“Watch where you’re going,” he snaps, righting himself, and they both stop to stare at him.

“Sorry about--” Aaron begins to apologize, but Alex butts in, clicking into focus so quickly that he almost gets whiplash.

“Yeah, sorry, but you were just standing there in the middle of the sidewalk. You don’t follow traffic flow, you gotta be prepared to accept the consequences. We shouldn’t have to move to bend around your wants. That’s not the way the world works. And what were you doing just standing there in the first place? A bit creepy if you ask me.”

Aaron furrows his brow, because yes, the man was rude, but they were the ones who bumped into him in the first place, and this seems like an extreme reaction, even for Alex. He puts a hand on his shoulder, trying to calm him, but he shakes it off with a furious gesture, almost brimming with tension. The wind around them picks up, as if in response.

“Do you have any idea who I am?” the man says with a glare. He speaks with a British accent, and he is dressed to the nines, his right hand holding a cane in a white-knuckled grip despite there not being any obvious reason as to why he would need it.

Before they ran into him, he was staring at the firm. Realization hits him like a bolt of lightning.

“Yes, of course, Mr. Frederick,” he says, and he tries once again to steer Alex away. “Again, I apologize for my friend here, he’s had a--”

George Frederick sniffs. “And you two are some of Washington’s underlings, I suppose,” he almost sneers, and Aaron sighs inwardly.

“Aaron Burr,” he introduces himself, albeit reluctantly. “This is--”

“Alexander Hamilton,” Alex cuts in, his face the very picture of defiance. Aaron can’t really blame him; if this is the tool who’s been trying to discredit their firm, then he would like nothing more than to shout and punch him in the face. However, someone has to be the voice of reason, and he doesn’t think Alex qualifies.

There is a moment of quiet that stretches out for too long. Aaron puts a hand on Alex’s arm and feels him stiffen. An uneasy tingle runs down his spine, almost making him shiver. The air feels like it’s crackling with ozone, the tension hanging around them like a palpable force. 

“Alexander Hamilton,” Frederick repeats. “Alexander Hamilton.” He says it slowly, savoring each syllable on his tongue in a way that makes Aaron want to either deck him or run for the hills. Maybe both. 

Frederick’s eyes snap to Alex and stay there, as if he has forgotten entirely about Aaron’s presence. The sharp breath that Alex takes is audible. “Alexander Hamilton,” he says once more time. His eyes drift. “And Aaron Burr.” He says his name with nothing but total disdain in his voice, and Aaron lets the insult wash over him like cold water. It takes more effort than it should to let it pass. “I’ll remember that.”

Alright, this conversation has officially crossed the line between uncomfortable and creepy. “Right then,” Aaron says. “Sorry for taking up your time, sir. We’ll be going now.” He tugs on Alex’s sleeve and begins to walk away, but as they pass him, Frederick’s left hand lands heavily on Alex’s shoulder. They both freeze, alarm bells ringing loudly in Aaron’s head.

_ What the hell- _

“Tell Washington,” Frederick says, in a conversational tone one might use to discuss the weather. “Your firm? Is mine to subdue.” There is a laugh in his voice that Aaron doesn’t understand, but he knows he doesn’t imagine the shudder that tears through Alex. “You will tell him, won’t you, my boy?” And then, he is gone, strolling jauntily down the street, spinning his cane in his hand. People part in front of him to let him pass; they recognize that something about the man is off, even if they don’t understand exactly what. He can’t say that he does either.

Aaron waits a moment.

“What the hell was that about?” he demands, and Alex shakes his head. His eyes are wide, wide and dark and stormy, and he has not looked away from Frederick’s retreating back. But his hand comes up to clamp around Aaron’s arm like a vice.

“I just had,” he says, in a thick, throaty voice, still looking away, “a very unsettling realization.”

“And what’s that?”

Finally, Alex turns back to him. And in the moment before he opens his mouth, Aaron knows, just  _ knows _ , that he is not going to get the full truth. He can see it in his eyes; even when he tries to hide his emotions, Alex’s eyes are always an open book. “He actually hates our firm,” Alex says. “He hates us personally, not just in a business way. I thought--” He breaks off for a moment, frowning and shaking his head-- “I thought that he just didn’t like us because we were taking his clients, but no, he hates us for who we are and what we represent.”

Aaron nods, following the logic. “He’s the type of man who likes to have complete control over everything in his domain. Washington challenged that, and not only that, he won. We represent the fact that he’s not nearly as powerful as he likes to think he is.”

“And as he likes others to think he is,” Alex agrees grimly, his mouth setting into a hard line. “That’s why he’s so determined to bring us down. And at the rate we’re going, if he doesn’t get us, Monarch will.” There is a wry and bitter twist to his words that Aaron doesn’t understand, but if he ignores that, he can see Hamilton as he was weeks and months ago, before the whole mess started. There is a light burning in his eyes that has been, if not absent, severely diminished for a good while now, and its return is a relief that hits him like a wave. Whatever it is that Hamilton’s going through right now, he is capable of conquering it, that much is clear.

Aaron is suddenly aware of how close they’re standing. And they’re still gripping each other’s arms, too. For a moment, he wonders what would happen if he took the initiative right now, caution be damned. He considers making a move.

He clears his throat instead. “Alex,” he starts, hesitant, “are you-”

He doesn’t know what he was about to say.  _ Are you Hurricane? _ Maybe.  _ Are you alright? _ That would be the safer choice. But he doesn’t get to finish, because Alex cuts him off with a shake of his head. “No,” he says, “I’m not. I’m sorry.”

Disappointment floods him, although he is uncertain as to why, exactly. And at the same time, the reality of the situation comes crashing down on him all at once. No, he doesn’t know what he was about to say, but it was probably something stupid, and he needs to get himself together. They’re still standing in the middle of the sidewalk, for God’s sake, and that’s not the place for any kind of important conversation. He really needs to drag his head back to earth from wherever it’s been, because the reality of the situation? Is this: Alex is his coworker, and also probably his friend, but it doesn’t go beyond that, and frankly, he has no business inserting himself into his problems. He’ll help where he can, of course, but if Alex actually wants help, he’ll ask for it, and that is that.

Besides, he has his own troubles to deal with, doesn’t he?

“Right then,” he says, and he steps back a pace, letting his hand slip from its place on Alex’s forearm. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Alex grins. “You know it.” He starts walking, presumably back to his place, but then stops. “And hey, uh, Aaron? Thanks for, um, being there today. I really, really appreciate it.”

Something in him warms. “Don’t mention it,” he replies, and with that, Alex is gone, jamming one hand into a pocket and crossing the street. Aaron watches him leave before heading in the direction of his own home.

There is something, he thinks, that he’s missing. A bigger picture that he has most of the pieces of, but is unable to see until that last fragment slots into place. But he’s so fixed upon the smaller details and his own problems that he’s unable to see how everything fits together.

_ If Hamilton isn’t Hurricane, _ he posits,  _ then who is?  _ And he finds that he is unable to form an answer.

* * *

 

His dreams that night are troubled, he thinks. When he wakes, he can’t remember any of them, though he has the same sense of urgency that he woke with the night before, the same indistinct voice echoing in his head. Somehow, he has the impression that this is important, but no matter how much he tries, he can’t recall a thing.

But he does remember this:

He has a sample of Hurricane’s handwriting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to post this yesterday, but I ended up going to see Wonder Woman. Let me tell you, if you haven't gone to see it, I highly recommend it. It is _so good. ___
> 
> _  
> _So, anyway, things are starting to come to a head. Everything's going to start spiraling very, very soon, and I am gleefully rubbing my hands and cackling in anticipation._  
>  _
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> _Also, just fyi, I'm going on vacation starting on Saturday, and I probably won't have much access to internet for the week. So the next update will probably be after the 18th or thereabouts._  
>  _


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alex actually has several important realizations, and everything finally reaches the tipping point.

Well, he panicked.

With the way his life has been going lately, with all the lies he’s been telling, one would think that he would have been able to come up with a better response. But the fact is that he took one look into Aaron's eyes, saw the knowing expression in them, and completely panicked.

_ No, I’m not. _ Honestly, what kind of a response was that? He hadn’t even let Aaron finish his question, had reacted on instinct and the possibility that he was striking too close to the truth. If anything, that would have made his behavior even more suspicious, if Aaron knew where to look, and this late in the game, that is not something he can afford.

Though, he thinks he can be at least partially excused for his lapse in good judgement. Because he is still reeling from the latest epiphany; his heart is pounding in time with his rapid footsteps, and his mind is whirling with the ramifications.

George Frederick is the Monarch.

In retrospect, it all makes complete sense, and Alex is left to berate himself for not figuring it out sooner. The accent, the imperial bearing, the way that he has such a grudge against Washington and the firm. It all adds up to a picture that he feels like he really should have seen before now. He supposes that his only excuse is that before now, Frederick has never seemed crazy, never seemed to have the psychopathic personality that would make him capable of something like this. Did he come off as creepy? Sure. A control-freak? Definitely. But never insane. Never like he had more than a few screws loose. Never like he could be driven to murder.

But he is. Alex has no doubt about it. Not anymore.

The only question is what to do about it.

_ “Tell Washington. Your firm? Is mine to subdue.” _

_ And he is not imagining the laugh in his voice, the laugh that Aaron might hear but almost certainly won’t understand, because this is being said for his benefit, no one else’s. The meaning in that phrase is meant for him and him alone, dropped into place like an inside joke being shared between two very old friends, if those two very old friends were trying to kill each other. _

Because Alex knows that he didn’t mistake the recognition glimmering in Frederick’s eyes. Knows that just as he saw the man for who and what he truly was, the man saw the exact same about him. And so, they are locked into a stalemate. He can’t unmask Frederick because Frederick would retaliate, both against him and against the people he loves. And at the same time, Frederick can’t unmask him either, because if he did that, there would be nothing to hold him back from destroying him utterly. Nothing more to lose.

Theirs is a dance of mutually-assured destruction. Their missiles are locked on target, they are peering down the sights of their guns, but neither of them can be the first to shoot.

Of course, there is a part of him that says he should go on ahead, should throw caution to the wind and take Frederick down. He knows he could. He could sharpen his pencils and write and write and write until there is nothing left to write and then he could scatter the information to the wind so that the whole city would see it and George Frederick would come crashing off his pedestal, taking both Monarch and Hurricane with him. It would be so easy, so simple, and after that, it would all be over, and then he could rest.

But it wouldn’t actually be over, because Frederick would drag him into the light too and prop him up so the world could see what he’d done. And he would suffer for it, of course, but he wouldn’t be the only one. His friends would be complicit in his crimes, all of his friends and possibly even the entire firm. If nothing else, it would ruin the firm’s reputation for being the cleanest one in town. And that… no, Alex doesn’t want that. He would be a poor lawyer indeed if he allowed that to be his legacy.

And besides, the last time he wrote something as a knee-jerk reaction to a threat, it didn’t end well. Almost cost him most of his friendships, in fact, and he would have deserved it if it had.

_ Wait for it, _ Aaron says in his mind, and for once, he decides to listen. For now.

* * *

 

His apartment is empty when he gets home. Which makes sense; his friends all have their own jobs, their own lives to take care of, and they’ll probably all gather here tonight anyway. But that doesn’t make the rooms any less empty, doesn’t protect him from the pangs of loneliness that shoot through him as he steps across the threshold and into the silent, still foyer. 

For a moment, he considers dressing up and going out. There is a particular fire escape calling his name. But even he knows that’s a stupid idea. For one thing, the sun is still hanging well above the horizon, and he has no desire to be pursued by police just because he couldn’t have patience. And for another thing, he really can’t continue to push his luck with Aaron like he has been lately. He came so close to figuring it all out today, he could tell, and why he hasn’t yet is a mystery he can’t seem to solve. Aaron has always been very perceptive, very considering, very analytical, even if he doesn’t let on to knowing half of what he perceives. With all the hints Alex has been dropping left and right and center, he should have pieced together the truth by now, and he has no idea why he hasn’t.

That’s something to consider for later, though. Right now, he has something to take care of.

Angelica picks up on the fourth ring.

“Hey,” he says. “So, I met Monarch today.”

She is silent for a moment. Alex counts the seconds.  _ One, two, three, four-  _ “Is that so,” she answers, and her tone is even and calm. Just what he needs right now. There was a reason why he called her first and not any of the others.

“Yeah,” he says. “George Frederick. Who knew, am I right?”

There is another pause, and then: “Alex,” she says, slowly and deliberately, “are you alright?”

Ah. Maybe he should have led with that. “I’m fine,” he is quick to assure her. “One hundred percent okay. It was the middle of the street in broad daylight with, like, at least twenty potential witnesses nearby. He couldn’t pull anything if he wanted to. But the thing is, I’m pretty much positive that he recognized me too, so everything just got a lot more complicated.”

Angelica swears, and there is a bit of noise in the background; it sounds like something scraping against the ground, probably her chair being pushed back as she stands. “It’s a stalemate, then,” she says grimly. “You can’t use your identities against each other, at least not publicly, because that would ensure that you both go down, and  _ he’s _ not the type to want to risk that.” There is a warning in her voice, loud and clear:  _ Don’t do anything stupid, Alexander, or I’ll make sure you regret it. _

He really can’t blame her. She has plenty of experience with him doing dumb and reckless things, and plenty of experience with the fallout of said dumb and reckless things.

“What compounds the problem is that this means that it’s about ten times harder to use any other sort of information against him, because he can retaliate in kind,” she continues. “Which is a pity, because I’m sure I can dig up plenty of dirt. His firm is entrenched in… sordid rumors.”

Alex frowns. “If you do go digging, be careful,” he insists. “If he manages to connect you to me in any way, then--”

“--everything goes up in flames,” she finishes. “But we’re going to have to consider the possibility that he’s already figured out, or will soon, everyone you’ve surrounded yourself with.” She pauses. “There’s Herc, who’s been going out with you almost since the beginning, and he hardly makes a secret of his power in day to day life. And then more recently there’s me and Eliza, and while we’re hardly obtrusive, we don’t try particularly hard to hide what we can do either. And from there, it’s possible he’ll connect the dots to everyone else.”

Her reasoning rings true, as much as he wishes it didn’t. “All of you are at risk,” he breathes, and he  _ knew _ this, he did, but to hear it laid out in the open like this makes the situation seem that much more real. “He could go after any of you.”

“We all knew the risks when we started helping you, Alex,” she replies, firm but not unsympathetic. “And we can look after ourselves. If and when he decides to come, we’ll be ready.”

And that rings true, for the most part. Angelica has her fire and Eliza her plants and Herc his strength. But what about John and Maria, who don’t have any powers at all? Not that he doubts their capabilities, but could they survive Monarch if the supervillain was intent on taking them out? And what about Lafayette, completely defenseless in their coma? Monarch could decide to bring the whole hospital down and there would be nothing to stop him, no guarantee of anybody making it there on time to prevent a tragedy.

And what about Aaron? Aaron, who isn’t even involved, who didn’t choose to risk his life, who is only mixed up in this at all because Alex in all his stupidity and selfishness just hasn’t been able to stay away.

“Not everyone has superpowers, Angelica,” he says.

“Not everyone needs them,” she states, steel in her voice. “You’ve trusted us this far. Trust that we can handle ourselves.”

Oh.

_ Oh. _

This is what he’s been missing.

He’s been so worried, so stressed, about protecting those dear to him. So focused on keeping them from harm that he’s been pulling away from them all the while, because he thought it was a small price to pay for their safety.

But they’re a team. They’re in this together. And they look after each other and rely on each other, but they can also handle themselves, and what Alex has been trying to do, no matter how well-intentioned, has been doing more harm than good. Not just to them, but to him too.

He feels a bit of his stress melt away at the realization, which has been, now that he thinks about it, a long time in coming. Not all of it, but enough so that his shoulders feel just the tiniest bit lighter.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay. I trust you.” And it’s nothing but the honest truth.

“Good. After all this, you’d better,” Angelica grumbles, but it’s relatively good-natured, and he thinks he detects a hint of relief in her tone. “We’ll all talk about this tonight, alright? We’ll figure out where to go from here. Just hang in there until then, okay?”

“I think I can manage that much,” he tells her. “And hey, thanks for that. I needed it.”

She laughs. “Goodbye, Alex,” she say, and then there’s a click and a dial tone, and he takes the phone away from his ear.

“Bye Angelica,” he says to the empty air, and he stares out the window for a moment, at the skyline, interrupted by skyscrapers and slowly darkening to indigo. Then, he grabs his laptop from his briefcase, plops down on his living room couch, and goes to work. There’s no harm in planning ahead, after all, and if he’s going to make it out of this alive, he has the feeling that he’s going to need contingency plans for his contingency plans.

They’re not all very good plans, of course, but he trusts that he’ll have his friends to help him when they arrive.

Today has been one mess of a day, but somehow, he’s feeling more optimistic than he has in a long time.

* * *

 

Weeks pass in an uneasy fashion, and Monarch doesn’t show his face even once. Alex feels constantly on edge, wondering when the other shoe is going to drop, but since he’s hardly in a position to fight the man as George Frederick, all he can do is watch and wait. After all, when there is no supervillain to fight, what is the superhero supposed to do? He could always find a cat in a tree to rescue, he supposes, but even that would be risky; despite the decreased supervillain presence, the police have not relented in their search for them both, and he would really rather not be arrested.

So he watches, and he waits, watches the bags under Washington’s eyes become more and more pronounced and waits as Lafayette continues to lie dead to the world around them. Watches as Jefferson and Madison are released from the hospital and waits for a confrontation from one or both of them that only comes in the form of Madison’s sideways gaze.

Watches Aaron’s glances in his direction become more and more pointed, more searching, and waits for something, anything, to upset the delicate balance that they have found themselves in.

“You really need to make a move,” John points out one day, over a cup of coffee. Technically, he’s still on his shift right now, but traffic in and out of the cafe is slow, so he’s getting away with the break. Though not for much longer, if the expression on his manager’s face is anything to go by.

“I do not have words,” Alex replies, “for how much that is a bad idea. Secret identities aside, I am not getting him involved more than I already have. Things are too complicated right now and it’s too risky.”

John shakes his head. “Don’t you think that should be his choice?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “He comes in here sometimes, you know. Usually with a girl. At first I thought they were dating, but I don’t think that’s right.”

He frowns. “Your point being?” He ignores the brief pang of jealousy that shoots through him, a sour emotion directed at a girl he probably doesn’t even know. He refuses to be that petty.

“I’m just saying, I know you, and I know you’re going to regret it so much if you let him get away.” John shrugs. “Look, I’ll be the first to tell you I’m not the guy’s biggest fan, but you like him, and honestly, I think he’d be good for you. But that’s something that’s never going to happen if you don’t get off your ass and risk it.” He leans forward, clasping his hands together, and he lowers his voice. “Seriously, it’s not like you not to go after something you want. What’s up? And don’t tell me it’s just the superhero thing, because I call bullshit.”

Alex sighs. “I’m in too deep,” he admits. “I have no idea if he likes me that way, like at all, and, um. Also. I kissed him. As Hurricane. So, um. That was a thing.”

John whistles, long and low. “You’re kidding,” he says. “No? Damn. That does complicate things. And you’re avoiding him as Hurricane now too, aren’t you?”

“You’re not helping,” he mutters, curling his hands around his cup of coffee. “He’s gonna be pissed.”

“Yeah, probably,” John agrees. “But then again, you were probably going to tell him about being Hurricane eventually anyway, right? He was probably going to be pissed no matter what. Honestly, I’m really surprised he hasn’t worked it out for himself by now.”

_ Me too, _ he thinks, and looks out the window. It was sunny when he arrived, but now, the sky is blanketed by dark grey clouds, and it looks as if it might begin to rain any second now.

He hopes he didn’t do that.

“This isn’t exactly helping me decide what course of action to take,” he says.

John huffs out a laugh. “Look, Alex,” he replies, “I can’t tell you what you should do, because I don’t have all the facts. Just go with your gut instinct. That’s hardly something you’ve had trouble with before.”

Well, yes, that’s true. But things were simpler before, less messy, less likely to implode in his face if he made the wrong move. Before, he didn’t have to juggle two separate identities; before, there weren’t people’s lives hanging in the balance if he did something reckless. He has had to learn to think things through before he acts, but the trouble with that is that now, he seems to have taken to thinking too much.

So, he listens to John’s advice and listens to his gut instinct, which is screaming at him that shit is about to hit the fan and he needs to be ready for it.

Which is why he is not completely caught off guard when Aaron knocks and enters his office, pulling up a chair to sit across from him, and folds his arms neatly on his desk.

“We need to talk,” he says, and Alex pauses in his paperwork.

“Yeah, sure, what about?” he asks, and hopes that this is just going to be about a case. A vain hope, perhaps, but the alternative would be much worse.

Aaron doesn’t reply right away, leaving them to sit in heavy silence. After a few minutes, Alex returns to his paperwork. Aaron watches his hand move across the page with an odd sort of intensity, and after he is done filling the paper in, he takes it and studies it with narrowed eyes. It takes a minute before he sets it aside, doing so with a sharp exhalation. Alex stops again, tapping his pen rapidly against the desk.

“Okay, seriously, what’s up?” he says. “Everything okay?”

Aaron’s eyes meet his, and there is a darkness in them that Alex finds completely inscrutable. “As much as it can be,” he says, “but you need a break.”

Alex blinks. Not… exactly what he was expecting, and he can’t help but look for the angle Aaron is sure to be working with this. “Um, okay? I mean, things have been pretty busy lately, but I think I’ve been doing just fine.”

Aaron shakes his head. There is a hint of a wry smile pulling at the corner of his lips, and a tightness around his eyes that Alex wishes he could smooth away. “You’re really not,” he says. “It’s becoming increasingly obvious that you’re wearing yourself too thin. You need a break, if only for a couple of hours.”

“Sure, okay,” Alex says, nodding, not entirely comfortable with this vein of conversation. “I can go home earlier today.” 

“We both know you’ll just continue working from home if you do that,” Aaron refutes, and Alex frowns, wondering when the man got to know him so well. 

“Then what are you proposing?” he asks.

Aaron hesitates. It is brief, only a few seconds, but it is noticeable; Aaron would normally never hesitate at all, is normally completely in control of himself and his speech, normally doesn’t need to pause because he already knows exactly what he’s going to say. “Come out for drinks with me,” he says. “It’s been a while since we’ve done something like that, and you look like you could use it.”

To his knowledge, they’ve only done something like that once, the very first time they met. But the idea is appealing, more so because Aaron is the one inviting him, and he cocks his head, considering. “Yeah, alright,” he finds himself agreeing. “Sounds good. After work?”

Aaron nods and stands, his expression blank. “After work,” he confirms. “I’ll see you then.” And he leaves the office, leaving Alex to watch his retreating back.

Something, he thinks, wasn’t quite right there. But he can’t put his finger on it, so he lets it go, returning to his work with nothing but the slightest feeling of unease.

_ It’s just drinks with Aaron, after all. What could go wrong? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Famous last words, Alex. Famous last words.
> 
> Thanks for being so patient with me guys. I know I almost never update when I say I'm going to update, so your continued support regardless of that means so much to me. Love you! :)


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which confrontations are had, and absolutely no one is happy about the situation.

Aaron is waiting for him when he gets down to the lobby.

“Have you been waiting long?” he asks. “Sorry. I got caught up in my latest case; well, no, actually, it’s Lee’s case, but that guy is so incompetent that it’s basically my case, and I’d tell Washington to fire him but I think the guy has enough on his plate right now. And then I got pulled into a conversation with that paralegal, uh, you know, Ben what’s-his-face… Archer? Arnold? Something like that. He wanted to know what I was doing tonight, which was kinda weird since we’ve barely ever spoken two words to each other, but I told him I was going out with you and he vanished pretty quick after that. So, anyway. You have a specific place to head to, or are we just wandering until we find a good one?”

He says all of this without stopping for breath, and when he is finished, Aaron is looking at him with an expression that might be amusement.

“I don’t have a preference,” he replies. “And this is for your sake, not mine.”

Alex rolls his eyes, because that’s just so typical.  “Of course you don’t,” he says. “Alright then. Shall we?”

They exit the building side by side, heading downtown. Despite what he said earlier, Aaron seems to have a destination in mind, so Alex is content enough to let him lead the way. It’s not a long walk, which surprises him, but he supposes that it makes sense. Business must be pretty good in the business sector, what with all the businesspeople that get off work wanting nothing more than to relax and have a few drinks.

The bar is not particularly crowded, which is nice, and the music playing is loud enough to be heard but not so loud that it’s deafening. Aaron directs him toward a table in the back and then goes to get drinks, leaving Alex to settle in. He looks around curiously; the place feels somewhat familiar, and he wonders if this is the same bar they went to together when they first met. He doesn’t think so, but it might be. At the time, he was paying far more attention to the people than his surroundings themselves.

Aaron slides into the seat across from him and hands him what looks like a beer. What kind it is, he can’t tell, but it tastes alright, and he sips at it slowly. “Thanks,” he says. “Y’know, I think you were probably right. I did need a break.”

Aaron gives him a smile that immediately sets him on edge, because it is not the more open smile that he has been using around him lately. Instead, it is the old smile, the mask, the ‘Talk less, smile more’ grin that Aaron puts on around anyone he doesn’t quite trust. Which is most people.

The unease from earlier in the day floods back in with a vengeance, and Alex shifts in his seat. Something is wrong here.

They sit in silence for a few moments. Then, Aaron sighs. “We still need to talk,” he says, and Alex frowns. Is this some kind of intervention? Not what he was expecting, but he can roll with the punches.

“Okay,” he replies. “What about?” And even as he speaks he is casting about in his mind for excuses he can use to allay any worries Aaron might be about to bring up. Most of them aren’t even lies: he hasn’t been sleeping well lately, there’s been stress in his social life, he’s worried about the firm, et cetera.

But instead of replying, Aaron falls back into that unsettling quiet. For once, Alex has no idea what to say to break it. He bites his lip.

“If this is about me overworking myself,” he starts, “then you really don’t need to worry about that. I’m doing just fine. I don’t take on cases I can’t see through to the end.”

Aaron waves his hand in the air, his eyes locking onto Alex’s with a startling intensity. “No,” he refutes. “It’s not about that. Well. It is, a bit.” He breathes heavily out through his nose, glances away. Alex leans in a little bit closer.

“What is it about then?” he asks.

Aaron visibly hesitates. “You’ve been working with Hurricane, correct?” he asks, and Alex is so thrown by the non-sequitur that he leans back, blinking.

“Um, yes?” he says, and hopes that his dislike of the direction this conversation is taking doesn’t show.

“Then perhaps you can give me some advice,” Aaron continues, almost as if he hadn’t spoken. “You probably know this already, but a few weeks ago, Hurricane spent the night in my apartment. I didn’t see him the following morning, but he left something behind.”

He swallows. No, he really doesn’t like where this is going. “What’s that?” he manages, his mouth dry.

“A note,” Aaron says. His voice is quiet, smooth and cold and barely audible as the bar begins to fill with more patrons, more noise. “A note thanking me for putting up with him for the night. I didn’t think much of it until recently. And then, I finally worked up the nerve to test a few theories of mine.” he pauses, and a chill runs down Alex’s spine. “Do you want to know what the funny thing is, Alex? Hurricane’s handwriting matches yours.  _ Exactly. _ ”

_ Oh God. _

_ No, wait, focus. There has to be a way out of this. Push the panic aside. That can come later. _

In for three, hold for four, out for eight, repeat, and he can only hope that Aaron doesn’t notice the pattern, doesn’t know how hard it has suddenly become to keep a lid on the fear that is rising up in him. The emotion is irrational, he knows, because despite everything, this is Aaron, and he knows that Aaron won’t use this against him even if he drops everything and confesses all of it, no matter how angry he is. But emotions have little to do with rationality, and right now, it’s hard to remember that the pounding of his heart is sounding in his ears alone and is not being broadcasted for the entire bar to hear.

“That’s because I wrote it,” he says, and his voice is calm and even despite the fact that he wants to scream. “He asked me to. Said it was the least he could do, after imposing on you like that. But he’s not dumb enough to leave his own handwriting lying around where anyone could see it.” Only, he is, and he wants to smack himself for being such an idiot. He’s been so careful. How could he have overlooked that?

“See, that’s a possibility I considered at first. But the thing is, the fact that Hurricane repeatedly landed on my fire escape at all despite the potential risks of doing so proves to me that the man doesn’t tend to think that far ahead. So, frankly, Alex--” He leans in close, and Alex cannot help but do the same-- “I don’t believe you.”

Alex rears back, feeling like he’s been slapped in the face, and he knows that his expression is like an open book right now but he’s finding it difficult to focus enough to care. Because those words were practically hissed out, full of venom and anger and who knows what else, and it hurts more than any direct blow would have. In this moment, he decides that he doesn’t care about his identity any longer-- Aaron has clearly worked it out anyway-- but he does care about keeping this friendship intact, if nothing else.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. No, you’re right, and that was a dumb excuse anyway. You deserve the truth.”

Aaron crosses his arms, his face a blank stone wall. “I would like to think so,” he replies, “but I have to wonder when I was going to get it. Would you be telling me anything at all if I hadn’t initiated this confrontation?”

Alex’s heart leaps into his throat, because the honest answer to that is  _ no, no he wasn’t _ , but somehow he really doesn’t think that Aaron is going to appreciate that. “But I’m telling you now,” he says, somewhat desperately. “Aaron, look, okay? You’re right. You’re completely, one hundred percent right. I’m-- I’m Hurricane.” He chokes on the words, is barely able to force them out. It feels so odd to say them, after all this time. “And the reason I didn’t tell you wasn’t that I didn’t trust you or something like that, I swear, I just… I just didn’t want you to get involved. To get hurt. I wouldn’t have been able to stand that.” 

That last sentence gives far, far too much away, because at one point or another, he recognized that he was long past crush territory regarding his feelings for the man. But it doesn’t matter anymore if Aaron knows that, as long as Aaron doesn’t stay angry at him forever. As long as he doesn’t hate him.

Aaron shakes his head. “But all of your other friends are mixed up in this somehow, if I’m not mistaken,” he points out. “Hell, some have been going out with you at night. Mulligan, I think, and the Schuyler sisters-- the ones that are in town, anyway.”

“Fine, yes, but they knew what they were getting into from the very start. They knew all the risks and decided to help anyway. You--” He frowns-- “I landed on your fire escape by accident. It wouldn’t have been fair to you to drag you into all of this without your say.”

“Then  _ maybe _ you should have considered that before you made it a goddamn habit,” Aaron snaps. “ _ Maybe _ you should have considered giving me the same fucking courtesy as everyone else and told me what I was getting into before you tried to use me like I was your goddamn therapist.  _ Maybe _ you should have told me who I’d be kissing before I did it, so I wouldn’t end up regretting it.”

True to form, Alex latches on to the part of that diatribe that is possibly the least relevant to the situation.

“You regretted it?” he whispers, and Aaron sighs, a long, drawn-out sound.

“I don’t know, Hamilton,” he replies. “You tell me. Should I?”

Hamilton.

That burns more than he cares to admit.

“I don’t,” he murmurs. “I know that sounds bad, but I don’t.”

For a moment, Aaron’s eyes go wide; whatever he was expecting him to say, it seems it wasn’t that. But then they narrow again, and the moment is lost. “That’s not the point,” he grits out, every word short and bitten off at the teeth. “The point is that you can’t seem to trust me to make my own decisions about what I want to ‘get involved’ in.”

“That’s not--”

“Tell me, did it ever occur to you that I would have wanted to help you? That I could have?”

“Oh? And how would you have done that?” Alex says, allowing his temper to take control for a moment. It’s either that or curl up and a ball and hope that makes the problem go away, and somehow, he doesn’t think that would work.

Aaron scowls. “Did it really never occur to you to think that I am not powerless?” he asks, and Alex cocks his head, because the emphasis he’s placing on that word almost makes it sound like--

But it can’t--

He would have known, surely--

“ _ You _ have a power?” he all but shouts, and it really is quite lucky that the bar has become as crowded and noisy as it is, because no amount of music would have covered up that outburst. He looks around hurriedly; he seems to be in the clear. No one is paying attention. When he continues, he is careful to do so quietly. “Are you serious? Since when? And what the hell, Aaron, why didn’t you ever tell me?”

Aaron regards him with a gaze like a steel trap. “Are you seriously asking me that question?” he asks. “And again, not the point.”

Alex gapes at him, because seriously? He just wants to, what, drop that bombshell and then continue the conversation as if that’s not a big fucking deal? What? “No, wait, what?” he says. “You want to run that by me again? How have you been hiding this? And, actually, what kind of power is it, first of all, because that--”

“The same way you’ve been hiding yours, I imagine,” Aaron interrupts smoothly. “I don’t make a habit of using it.”

“You don’t? Like, ever?” He furrows his brow. “You know that suppressing it like that isn’t good for you, right? You could have told me about this. You could’ve trusted me to keep it a secret.”

Aaron regards him. “Then tell me, why should I have trusted you with my secrets when it seems you couldn’t trust me with yours? Because that’s what it comes down to here, Hamilton. Trust. And frankly, I thought I could trust you, but I’m beginning to think I was wrong.”

His heart plummets down into his shoes. “No, no, Aaron, you can trust me, I swear, you can. I’m talking to you, aren’t I? I’m sharing my secrets with you instead of lying. Doesn’t that mean… I trust you?”

“I forced you into this conversation and you know it. If it were left up to you, I would only have known you were Hurricane after everything was over, if at all.” He laces his hands together. “You lied to me, Alex,” he says, and his voice is so very bitter. “I trusted you, and you lied to me.”

There is a heat building behind his eyes, and he blinks rapidly, determined to keep it under control. This is not the time or place. But the thing is, he has no way to refute Aaron’s accusation, no clever way to twist his words around so that he comes out on top. The fact is that Aaron is right; he’s been lying. It doesn’t matter how good his intentions were.

A picture begins to form in his mind, and Alex is fairly sure he doesn’t like it. If Aaron has a power, then he’s been hiding it well, that much is clear. He must not use it often, if at all. And if he’s afraid of other people knowing about it, then that would explain why he never opens up to anyone; he doesn’t want anyone to get too close, close enough to find out and use it against him.

But in the past month or so, Alex has gotten close. And now, from Aaron’s point of view, Alex has betrayed his trust.

He’d be mad too, if he were him, Alex supposes. Of course, understanding the anger doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because there is nothing else to try at this point, nothing else that can magically make this all better. “I am so, so sorry, Aaron.”

Aaron is silent. For a moment, Alex thinks he sees a flash of warmth in his eyes, but if he does, it is quickly buried by everything else, the anger and betrayal and hurt.

“Please say something,” he begs. “Just… anything, Aaron, please.”

Aaron sighs and stares up at the ceiling. “I need space, Alex,” he says, and if the use of his first name is a good sign, then the weariness and defeat in his voice most certainly is not. “Space and a hell of a lot of time.”

Alex nods. That’s reasonable, and honestly better than he was expecting. At least it doesn’t seem like Aaron wants to end their friendship. Maybe there’s still hope. Maybe there’s still a way to make everything alright again. “Okay, that’s… yeah, okay. I should… I should probably go, then.” He stands up slowly, waiting to see if, by any chance, Aaron will change his mind and tell him to stay after all. But he just snorts.

“Right,” he mutters. “I guess the city won’t save itself.”

Alex winces. “Yeah, um. Yeah. Probably not.” He takes a few steps and then thinks better of it, turning back. “You know it’s completely safe with me, right? Your secret. I won’t tell a soul.”

Aaron barely spares him a glance. “Well,” he says, “I’ve got your number if you do.” And Alex flinches back at that, almost violently, because any implication that Aaron would share his identity is just… no. The thought terrifies him, and the worst thing is, he is no longer completely certain that he won’t. Not if he missteps. He can imagine it all too well; one slip about Burr’s powers, whatever they might be, out in the open and bam. Hurricane goes down, Burr standing over his remnants with his blank smiling mask firmly in place.

Suddenly, the bar is too crowded, the quarters too close, the air too hot, too stifling. He staggers back, heading blindly for the exit, neither noticing nor caring about the people he bumps into on the way. His breaths are coming in too shallow, too quick now, and he needs to get out, to find a place where he can think and calm down and possibly have a breakdown. Whichever sounds like the best idea.

It’s later than he thought it was, the sky making the transition from blue to deep lavender, and somehow, that only makes everything worse. Because once he gets home, he knows he’ll have to don the outfit and set to work, and that’s the last thing he wants to do right now. Not when Aaron is angry with him, not when Aaron might hate him, not when Aaron feels threatened by him and is threatening in return.

A few months ago, he never would have thought that he’d be able to rely on Aaron Burr as support for anything. Now, he can hardly imagine a world where he can’t, and he has to live in it.

He stops moving, gasping for breath and putting his hand against the nearest wall to steady himself. He hadn’t noticed he was running. He grasps at his chest with one hand and feels the way his heart is pounding, the way his breath is coming in ragged wheezes that aren’t supplying nearly enough oxygen.

_ In for three. Hold for four. Out for eight. Repeat. _

He forces himself to breathe.

He doesn’t know how long it takes to calm down, but when he comes back to himself, the streets are empty and there is sweat trickling down his face and back. He straightens, inhales, exhales.

He doesn’t have time for panic. He has a maniac to find. The city really won’t save itself, and he’s sure that Monarch won’t want to take a raincheck just because he’s having some personal issues.

_ Everything’s going to be alright. _

Well, probably not. But if he has to start lying to himself in order to get the job done, then so be it.

He walks home, his head held high and his footsteps even and measured. The only outside indication of his stress lies in his fists, which are clenched by his side, his fingernails almost drawing blood.

He doesn’t notice. He has work to do.

* * *

 

Alex does not look back when he stumbling out of the bar. As such, he misses a few details.

He misses the way Aaron cringes as soon as the damning words leave his mouth, knowing that he has stepped across a line which he was unaware was present until just then.

He misses the way Aaron places his head in his hands and lets out a long, low groan, the picture of abject misery. He also misses the tears that prick in the corners of his eyes, the tears that he steadfastly refuses to let fall.

And perhaps most importantly, he misses seeing the man that slides into the seat across from Aaron just minutes after he leaves. The man is tall and pale, with eyes like a dead fish that shine with something too joyful to be anger, too sinister to be happiness. He holds a cane in his right hand, and he lays it across his lap as soon as he sits. He wears a bright, thin smile like a cloak drenched in deadly poison, and he does not allow it to falter.

“Hello, Mr. Burr,” the man says, and Aaron looks up and jerks back, his eyes going wide with something that is between anger and fear. “I’d like to speak to you, if I may.”

A bar full of witnesses, but there is no safety. Not any longer.

But Alex does not see. Alex does not look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy death day Alex, you asshole.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aaron is in a lot of trouble. But even in a world of uncertainties, he can still control himself.

When he hears the person slide into the seat across from  him, at first he thinks that Alex has come back, and he is relieved. He crossed a line and he knows it; what he doesn’t know is whether or not he’ll have the opportunity to take back those words, those words that were entirely too careless, too thoughtless, too cruel. So when he looks up, it is with an apology on his lips.

“Hello, Mr. Burr,” the man who is most assuredly not Alex says. “I’d like to speak to you, if I may.”

The man is George Frederick. Everything else clicks a moment later; in light of what Alex has told him, it’s obvious. An unsettling revelation, indeed.

_I’m going to die,_ he thinks dimly. And then, _Did the others know too? Did he kill them in costume or in a suit and tie?_

“Of course, Mr. Frederick,” he says out loud, betraying nothing. He clamps down on his walls more firmly than ever, determined not to allow even the smallest amount of fear to shine through. “What can I do for you?”

Frederick smiles thinly. “We have a mutual troublesome acquaintance,” he reveals. “One Alexander Hamilton. I would like your help in dealing with him, if that’s possible.”

Ah. So this is what this is. Once again, he really wishes that Alex had thought to tell him about his identity before now, because if he had, he could have prepared for this eventuality. As it stands, he doesn’t see a way out of this situation. “I’m afraid I’m not interested in anything like that,” he says, and stands. “If you don’t mind, it’s been a long day, and I’d like to head home.”

Quite unexpectedly, his legs give out, and he lands heavily back on the chair. His heart begins to hammer, and he wants nothing more than to get up and run away as fast as he can, no matter the attention that would draw, but no matter how much he strains, he _can’t move_.

The Monarch is keeping him in place with no more effort than a twitch of the finger.

He glares.

“Mr. Burr,” Frederick says, his voice almost a purr, “I’m afraid I’m not giving you any choice in the matter.” He leans in closely; Aaron can feel his breath on his cheek. “Now, here’s what’s about to happen. You and I are about to get up and leave this… fine establishment together. We will do so naturally and without fuss. If you even attempt to indicate that something is wrong, I will kill you right then and there. Not what I have in mind for the evening, if it can be avoided, but I will not hesitate to rearrange my plans, if I must. Do you understand?”

He tries to nod, only to find that he is not capable of moving his head. He is barely able to force his lips open. “Yes,” he says, and adds, “How did you know we were here?”

“The same way I knew where all the others were, of course,” Frederick replies. “There are people in your firm who are… dissatisfied, shall we say, with the current leadership. Also, there exist people who are susceptible to persuasion.”

“You mean bribes.”

Frederick’s face darkens for a moment, anger and hate flashing behind his eyes. Aaron would be satisfied with getting a rise out of him, if it didn’t have such potential consequences for his own continued good health.

“If you want to put it that way,” Frederick agrees. “Now, let’s go to your place for this, shall we?” He stands, and the pressure that has been holding Aaron in place releases. He slides out of his seat, trying to keep some measure of distance between himself and the other man, but Frederick seems determined to walk right beside him, though whether to discomfit him or make sure he doesn’t try anything, he doesn’t know. Probably a mixture of both.

“Why me?” he asks, once they are well on their way down the street. It is at least a twenty-five minute walk to his apartment, and he intends to get as much information as he can in the meantime. There has to be a way out of this; no man is invulnerable, and he refuses to believe that the Monarch is any different. Besides, he can’t rely on Alex showing up and helping him. Not after what happened.

Frederick, disturbingly enough, chuckles. “You don’t have to play dumb with me, Mr. Burr,” he says. “You and I both know that if I want to strike at Hurricane, you’re the way to do it.”

“And why is that?”

“Several reasons. For one, at least half of his associates have some sort of power. You, on the other hand, do not.”

_He doesn’t know._

_… I should probably keep it that way._

“And also, well. You and I both know that whatever you two have isn’t quite friendship.”

His mouth goes dry. “What do you mean by that?”

Frederick shoots him a look. “Don’t insult my intelligence,” he says flatly. “You’re in each other’s offices all the time at work, and you’ve been spending more and more time in each other’s company outside of work as well. Case in point: tonight. And my sources claim that you’re constantly sending each other lingering looks whenever you think no one else is looking.”

_He thinks we’re together_ , he realizes, and almost feels like crying, almost feels like laughing aloud. Because honestly, after tonight, nothing could be further from the truth.

The memory of the kiss rises to the forefront of his mind, that single, desperate, wonderful kiss that he should definitely not be dwelling on. He’d imagined Alexander behind the mask when it happened, and now that he knows it was Alex, he feels both betrayed and unreasonably excited.

In retrospect, Theo was probably onto something when she suggested he had feeling for him.

Of course, now it’s too late to do anything about it.

“Right,” he mutters, and Frederick looks pleased with himself.

“There you have it, then,” he says. “I considered going after his ex-girlfriend, or perhaps that barista friend of his, but both, I thought, were a little bit too risky to start with.” And he keeps talking, but Aaron is no longer listening.

_That barista friend of his._

John Laurens works in a cafe.

That cafe is on the way to his apartment.

They’ll pass that cafe in about five minutes, if they keep this pace.

Aaron schools his expression, not letting on to any of the hope he’s suddenly feeling. This could be what saves his life. If he can grab Laurens’ attention somehow, as they pass, then Laurens can get help.

Of course, if Frederick notices him making such an attempt, or indeed even notices that Laurens is nearby, then he’ll die.

But he’s going to die anyway, so it’s worth a shot.

The cafe is in sight now. He slows his pace almost imperceptibly, and Frederick matches him without seeming to notice. The sky is darkening, which means that from inside the cafe, the windows will be more reflective of the interior than anything else, but he refuses to let that make him fail. John Laurens is inside; he can see him now. He is hanging up an apron and talking to the woman still behind the counter, but his back is to the window and he’s not turning around.

_Damnit damnit damnit damnit_

Desperate times call for desperate measures, and he has desperation in spades. He gathers as much emotion as he can, all of his helplessness and fear and anger, and he _shoves_ it in Laurens’ direction. He doesn’t really expect it to work; he hasn’t tried to do something like that since he was a child. But Laurens jerks, and he spins around, his eyes wide. They make eye contact out of the corner of Aaron’s eye, and then the cafe is behind him, and he can only hope that Laurens understood.

A few minutes pass. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice that?” Frederick asks mildly, and Aaron’s heart leaps into his throat.

_Shit._

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies, and hopes his fear isn’t visible on his face. “Notice what?”

Frederick sighs. “Despite what you seem to think, Mr. Burr, I am not an idiot,” he says. His voice is dry, but he does not seem angry, though that probably doesn’t mean anything. This man kills people for fun. “You’re very lucky that I’d planned to invite Hurricane anyway. Otherwise, I would be… displeased.”

Realization strikes, and Aaron feels like he’s going to be sick. A headache begins to pound behind his eyes; it’s ignorable for now, but he hopes it’s not going to get any worse. “You’re not going to kill me,” he says, his voice bleak even to his own ears. “You’re using me as bait.”

Frederick smiles, a content, sickening curl of his lips, looking like the cat that caught the canary. “Hurricane will come for you,” he agrees. “It won’t take very long. And when he does, I’ll kill him. He’ll let me, rather than risk harm to you.” He pauses. “Of course, I’ll probably kill you anyway, after that. Though, perhaps not. Someone should be stuck with the fallout, after all.”

There is a laugh bubbling up in his throat, thick and desperate and hollow. He swallows it. “You really think he’s going to come for me?” he asks. “I suppose you didn’t get there in time to hear the argument we had. Hamilton has better things to do with his time than rescue me.”

There is a corner of his mind yelling at him to shut up, to stop talking, because even if he can convince the Monarch that he is worthless as a hostage, that still leaves his own head on the chopping block. The moment he proves to be worthless, he’s dead. But at the same time, it would be better if he was the only one to die rather than both of them, if such a situation is unavoidable.

Though, he knows that his case is a hopeless one. No matter what arguments they may be having, once Alex hears that he’s in trouble, he’ll come swooping in to his attempted rescue, come hell or high water. That’s the type of person he is; Alex frequently gets others hurt through his own sheer carelessness-- the Reynolds’ affair comes to mind-- but at the same time, he’d risk his life to keep those he cares about safe.

Frederick laughs. “You and I both know that’s not true,” he says, and then they both fall into uneasy silence, because at this point, there is nothing else that can be said.

They reach Aaron’s apartment without fanfare. They are quiet as the elevator rumbles its way to his floor, and they are quiet as Aaron pulls out his key and unlocks the door. Frederick looks around with disdain, his nose slightly wrinkled as he takes in the spartan nature of Aaron’s decorating.

“Well,” he finally says. “Won’t you sit down?”

Aaron crosses his arms, because really, after all of this, are they honestly going to sit there and pretend that they have any reason to be polite to one another? “I think I’ll stand, thanks,” he grits out, but then there is a wave of force and he is pushed onto the couch.

“No, please, do sit,” Frederick says. He looks toward the kitchen. “Do you have tea?”

“Help yourself.”

There is a supervillain making tea in his kitchen. He has been rendered immobile on his couch, a prisoner in his own house, he is probably about to die and possibly Alex along with him, and there is a supervillain making tea in his kitchen.

If the situation weren’t so terrible, he might laugh. It’s like something out of a D-list action movie, with he himself playing the role of damsel in distress.

Frederick returns with his tea promptly, sitting on the chair on the other side of the coffee table, facing Aaron. He sets the cup down on a coaster, and Aaron feels vaguely ill; he won’t be able to use that cup again, he knows, and he’ll probably end up throwing out the rest of his tea supply; god knows he won’t be able to drink it again without remembering this. If he survives.

“So,” Frederick says, genially, “here is what is about to happen. I have contacted Mr. Hamilton about your situation, in case Mr. Laurens didn’t quite manage to convey its urgency. He should be here any minute now, all in a panic. He will enter your apartment, see the two of us together, and he will attempt to negotiate. These negotiations, such as they will be, will undoubtedly end with him dead, and likely you as well, do you understand?”

Aaron snorts. “If that’s your version of events, then you don’t know him as well as you think you do. He’ll charge in guns blazing, and he won’t be thinking about the consequences. He never does. I might end up dead, to be sure, but you’ll go down with me if that happens.” He tries to sound confident, even though inside, he’s a quaking mess. His voice doesn’t shake, at least, so he’ll count that as a victory.

Frederick is unruffled. “I’ve considered that already,” he says, amusement clear in his voice. “Mr. Hamilton is a reckless one, isn’t he? So, I’ve prepared this.” And from somewhere within the folds of his suit jacket, he pulls out a gun, its steel grey muzzle a menacing shadow in the dim light of the living room. If he weren’t being forced to stay still, Aaron would be frozen right now. A bead of sweat trickles down his spine. His hands try to clench into fists, but his fingers barely twitch.

“You think he’s going to let a gun kill him?” he asks. He’s trying for cold and dismissive, but it comes out doubtful, fearful, and he curses his slipping grasp on his self-control.

“Likely not,” Frederick agrees. “But it could easily kill you.”

_Damn it._

“So,” Frederick continues, “this is what his first sight will be when he enters this room.” He turns the gun over in his hand, tracing its crevasses, studying it. Then, entirely without his permission, Aaron’s arm moves forward, his hand outstretched, and the Monarch places the handle of the gun in his palm and closes his fingers around it. With gentle, deft movements, he then turns his hand and the gun both so that Aaron is staring down the barrel. “Don’t bother fighting it,” he comments. “I’m more powerful than you.”

Perhaps. But when Frederick handed the gun over, Aaron noticed something that the other man apparently did not.

The Monarch’s hand was shaking.

_So, he’s either scared, which doesn’t seem likely, or keeping me like this is taking a lot of effort._ It makes sense, when he thinks about it. The Monarch’s power can rip up streets and knock over buildings with ease, but to control the actions of a single man takes finesse, and the Monarch simply isn’t built for that.

Of course, that knowledge doesn’t make the situation any less terrifying. Even as he seeks to keep himself calm, Aaron can feels his breaths coming in shorter and shorter gasps, and his eyes are fixed on the gun in his hand.

_There’s a gun pointed at my head. He’s making me point a gun at my head._

He does not want to end his life by eating a bullet.

“A stark reminder of your mortality, isn’t it?” Frederick says, a smug smile twitching on his lips. “It should draw him up short, if nothing else.”

“You can’t make me,” Aaron manages, and Frederick’s smile widens.

“Can’t I?” he asks, and for one terrifying moment, Aaron feels his finger spasm on the trigger. “Best watch yourself, Mr. Burr. You wouldn’t want me to slip.”

Aaron swallows, and doesn’t answer.

There is nothing to describe this feeling, this knowledge that his body is not his to control, this understanding that if he makes one wrong move, he will be forced to kill himself. He imagines it for a moment: blood and bone and grey matter sprayed against the wall. Eyes fixed in terror, if he still has a face at that point. He very well might not, at this range.

His head is pounding. He wants to be sick.

They sit there in silence for a few minutes more, Frederick calmly sipping at his tea. Then: footsteps coming down the hall, loud ones, hurried ones. Frederick smiles. “It seems that he’s here,” he says, and then the door bangs open, letting in a gust of wind so strong that it almost starts knocking furniture over.

Alex stands silhouetted in the doorway, one hand bracing himself against the doorway, the other clenched at his side. He hasn’t bothered with the Hurricane gettup; his hair is almost as wild as his eyes, and he is breathing heavily. His eyes lock with Aaron’s, and the wind picks up, until all Aaron can hear is a thin shrieking in his ears. Frederick says something, then, that he cannot quite make out, but Alex seems to understand, because the wind slowly dies until it is little more than a breeze wrapping around their ankles.

“That’s better,” Frederick says. “Do come in.”

_And so it begins._ The tension is suffocating.

And yet, at the same time, everything is starting to feel very, very far away.

Alex steps forward, and the door swings shut behind him. “Let him go,” he growls. “You have me, I’m the one you want, so let him go. _Now._ ”

Frederick tuts. “You’re hardly in a position to make demands, Mr. Hamilton. A snap of the fingers is all it will take to kill him.”

Alex’s eyes flit to the gun, and Aaron can tell that he understands the situation all too well. “You alright, Aaron?” he asks, his voice soft.

He tries for a smile, tries to focus. “I’ve been better. But he hasn’t hurt me.” The _yet_ goes unspoken, though he knows everyone in the room can still hear it.

“That’s right,” Frederick agrees, “and I won’t, as long as you cooperate with me.” He stands, the motion fluid and controlled. “Now, Mr. Hamilton, let’s be honest with one another. I can’t allow us to be continuing in the way that we have been. I have my own goals, and I will not rest until I have accomplished them. You, one the other hand, have a strange fixation on stopping me.”

Alex glares. “It’s not a _strange_ fixation. You’re killing people!”

_Brilliant observation there, Alex. A-plus for effort._

Frederick sniffs. “Collateral damage. I don’t concern myself with it.” There is a light gleaming in his eyes, and in that moment, Aaron can clearly see the supervillain behind the businessman. George Frederick thinks of himself as the king of his domain, and it is easy to imagine him dressing up as one to terrorize the city.

This can’t be allowed to continue.

“He’s going to kill me as soon as he kills you,” he says, with no small amount of effort, and both of them jerk and face him, Frederick with a glare and Alex with wide-eyed fear. His voice sounds dispassionate even to his own ears, distant and cold and uncaring.

“Like hell,” Alex says, and raises an arm. The wind begins to blow once again, and outside, there is the rolling crash of thunder. Frederick takes a step back, inhaling sharply, but then he seems to remember the position he’s in. A motion of his finger, and Aaron is pulled forward, off the couch, to stand next to the Monarch, who puts a hand on his shoulder.

“You would do well to remember who has the power here,” he says. He has to all but shout to be heard. “If you want your lover dead, then by all means, continue as you are!”

Alex blinks. Everything stops. “My--?”

“I have places to be tonight,” Frederick continues, practically spitting the words. Any pretense at decorum, at sanity, has vanished, like a candle being snuffed out. “I think I’ll pay Washington a visit after I’m done here. I want to see his face when he finds out his favorite golden boy is dead.”

_This can’t be allowed to continue._

His thoughts are scattered now, flying apart and coming back together at speeds impossible to track, and he just can’t think of a way out of this that doesn’t end in someone’s death.

But there is one thing he knows.

“Like hell,” he echoes, quietly, and meets Alex’s eyes.

There’s something there, he thinks. Something. If they both survive this, that something may be worth a shot.

Maybe it’s time to stop waiting.

Maybe…

One last time.

_I am the one thing in life I can control._

Aaron lets go.

No more walls. No more masks. If this is the last moment he has to live, then he will live it as himself. All of himself. If only for a moment.

That will have to be enough.

Anger, horror. Grief, terror. Determination. He shoves away the dissociation and forces himself to feel all of it.

If Monarch is going to kill him, then he’s damn well going to know what he’s causing.

Several things happen at once.

Frederick curses, suddenly gasping for breath, suddenly stumbling backwards. One hand flies up to grip at his head. The other flies out, and Aaron’s arm flies with with it. But his control is weak, distracted.

Aaron uses that. His focus narrows, and he turns to face the man. Moving is difficult, slow, but no longer impossible.

To his right, Alex has dropped to his knees. His eyes are wide. Shining suspiciously bright.

Aaron ignores him. There’s no time.

Gunshots ring out. One, two. He presses the trigger deliberately, methodically. He wouldn’t have stopped even if Alex had told him to. Which he didn’t. The gunshots ring out, and Aaron doesn’t flinch.

And then there is blood on the tile floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait, guys. Tbh, I really don't like how this chapter turned out, but I wanted to give you something. Both school and my home life have been conspiring against me (this was the worst start of a school year I have ever been through, I kid you not), and I'm also not nearly as passionate about this fandom as I used to be. But I'm still going to finish this fic, I promise.
> 
> At this point, I'm estimating about five more chapters. Or something. Shit only gets wilder from here, so stay tuned for more blood, mayhem, Aaron being a badass, and Lafayette finally making their appearance.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is blood, injury, copious mentions of people's eyes, and a POV switch mid-chapter.

For just a moment, the city stands still.

The event does not go unnoticed by anyone. The most powerful empath in the city, and perhaps beyond that, is making his feelings known, and it is impossible to ignore it. The significance, however, the true meaning, can only be grasped by a few.

John Laurens is running when he feels it, and he has to take a moment to separate the foreign  _ fearangerdesperation _ from his own, even as his heart rate doubles. Then he curses, picking up his pace. His phone is gripped tightly in his hand, the last number he called still blinking on the screen. Alex didn’t pick up.

Hercules Mulligan is gearing up to bust down Alex’s door. John called him after the fifth time Alex didn’t come to the phone. But as it happens, he pauses. Instinctively, he knows, just  _ knows _ that even if he got the door open right here, right now, he would be greeted with an empty apartment. He mutters something under his breath. Alex isn’t here.

Theo Prevost has just gotten home from a long day at the office. She thinks she’s going to run for mayor. When it happens, she knows immediately. Aaron trusted her with this side of him a long time ago. She leaves her cup of coffee cooling on the table, untouched, in her rush back out the door. She only just remembers to snag her keys. Aaron is in trouble, and she can only hope she’s not too late.

Eliza Schuyler and Maria Lewis are standing outside their front door, frozen for a moment. They exchange fearful glances, and their hands find each other’s. They are standing there in the cold, outside the apartment that they share, their coats flapping around them as the wind buffets them. Then, they too begin to run.

James Madison is stuck in traffic, his boyfriend, still on crutches, in the passenger seat. He feels it, and he slams on the breaks, and he makes a sharp turn, ignoring Thomas’ shouted protests, not minding the several almost-accidents he has just caused. There is one thing running through his mind: he should have  _ known _ .

Angelica Schuyler isn’t panicking, and she certainly doesn’t delay. This has something to do with Alex, of that she is sure, and knowing the man, he’ll need someone to save his ass from the fire when all is said and done. She gathers her thing and gathers herself and she is off. Her phone rings. It’s her sister, and she picks up, because the youngest has as much right as any of them to be there.

Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette (as much good as the title has ever done them), known to their friends as Laf, is still in the hospital, is still in a coma, is still physically dead to the world around them. But their mind, unfettered, is drifting far and wide, and they feel the shockwave as if they were at the scene itself. If there ever was a time to wake up, they think, it is now.

It is now.

* * *

 

The force of it drives him to his knees.

Everything is happening too fast now, and even he can barely keep up. It’s difficult to think, difficult to separate this flood, this deluge of foreign emotions from his own, and he can barely form a coherent thought. His heart is still pounding, his blood still singing with adrenaline and  _ Aaron has a power _ and  _ Aaron doesn’t trust me _ and  _ Aaron’s in danger my fault myfaultmyfault _ .

And, in the past few minutes,  _ holy shit, Aaron’s a badass. _

He blinks, trying to see past his tears. Huh. He hadn’t realized he was crying. He bites his lip, tries to focus on anything but the  _ angerdespairfearpainhatreddetermination _ filling his head with white noise. He can’t afford this. Not now.

Aaron still has the gun-- and he can recall with clarity the shock he felt when he saw him holding it, pointed at his own skull, the horror, the fear, the overwhelming feeling of  _ Aaron’s going to die and I can’t stop it oh god _ \-- but he has it aimed right at the Monarch, at George Frederick, who is barely upright, grasping at his head, his eyes wide and unfocused and terrified. Good. Serves him right.

And, as Alex watches, Aaron shoots.

For a moment, he thinks that will be the end of it. That after this, everyone will be able to go home. That the nightmare will be over, the villain locked away, and the heroes will all get their happily ever after.

Of course, the real world doesn’t work that way. He’s known that since he was twelve years old.

Distracted or not, injured or not, the Monarch still has his powers. Under normal circumstances, deflecting bullets would be child’s play for him. As things stand, he just barely manages to wave the bullets off course. One, Alex is pleased to note, still connects, hitting the Monarch’s shoulder, sending blood splattering onto Aaron’s tile floor.

He doesn’t have time to see where the other one goes, because suddenly he is on fire.

He doesn’t know what sound he makes. It must not be good, because suddenly, his mind is very quiet and very empty, his feelings his own, like Aaron’s were never there at all. Something is making a high-pitched keening sort of sound, and he wishes that whatever it is would stop, but that is a minor detail compared to the very present threat of burning to death or--

Or maybe not. That terrible, all-encompassing pain is fading now, turning into a sharper agony, centered on his side. His breaths come in shorter and shorter, and he realizes that the high-pitched sound is coming from him.

_ Not burning. Not… not burning. This is… _

_ I’ve been shot. _

There are arms around him now, forcing him to lie back. The tile is cool and soothing, but that doesn’t do much for the pain. Someone is talking. He forces bleary eyes to focus; Aaron’s face swims into view above him, frantic, scared, mouthing words that he can’t quite make out over the ringing in his ears. His eyes are so beautiful, dark and deep.

“--lex!” he is saying. “Alex, focus! Alex!”

He doesn’t think he’s ever heard him so emotional. Not even earlier at the bar; that was cold anger, not this heated desperation.

The pain is fading. Everything is fading. Going numb.

Is he dying?

Maybe.

Wait, no. He’s felt this before. After the hurricane. After he found his cousin hanging from the ceiling fan. Shock.

That could still kill him, though. Not good.

There’s a pressure on his chest, on his ribs, a warmth. Is Aaron still there? Still talking?

He should care about this, he thinks. Knows. But his thoughts are fuzzy and grey, like a wool blanket, and he really, really wants to close his eyes.

A jolt of fear, making him jerk, making the pain flare. His eyes snap back open. It’s not his fear, it’s Aaron’s. Aaron  _ is _ still here, is pushing down on the wound with desperation, is still talking, words falling out of his mouth at a rate that Alex has never heard from him before.

“--going to be alright, just hang in there, damn it. You are not allowed to do this to me now. Stay awake for me, Alex, you’re going to be--”

The fear passes through him and washes over him and leaves almost as quickly as it arrived, making him think that maybe Aaron didn’t mean to send that his way. Or… whatever. However his powers work. But it works like a slap to the face, or an adrenaline shot; Alex can still feel that inviting numbness on the edge of his consciousness, but he grits his teeth and digs in. Not today.

He can pinpoint where the pain is coming from now: his left side, between his ribs. Not ideal. But one thing he is not doing is coughing up blood, so he’s going to take that as a positive sign. If he’s lucky, the bullet didn’t hit anything vital.

If he’s not--

The pain flares, and he lets out a strangled groan, his back arching. Dimly, he hears Aaron let out a stream of curses, feels his hands push him down against the floor again, and damn, that does  _ not  _ feel good--

“-- _ not _ allowed to die on me, do you understand, you are  _ not _ \--”

“‘M not dyin’” he manages to slur. Aaron freezes.

“Alex?”

Alex grins as best he can manage, which is probably not all that well, but hey, he gets points for effort, right? “Here,” he says. “Not dyin’.” 

Aaron lets out a shaky breath. “This is my fault,” Alex barely hears him mutter, and Alex frowns, because, um, no? Literally nothing about this situation is Aaron’s fault, what is he talking about?

And speaking of the situation…

“Monarch,” he gasps out, “Monarch, did he--?”

Aaron looks over his shoulder; unnecessarily, in Alex’s opinion, because it is obvious that the Monarch is long gone, fled out the door as soon as he was able. There is a trail of blood smeared on the floor. Alex wonders how much of that is his.

“He’s gone,” Aaron says. “I’m sorry. I got… distracted.”

Alex lets out a laugh that turns into a moan, because, wow, that really, really hurts. “No kidding,” he rasps. “‘R the… the para… the par… the 911 people coming?” Sooner rather than later would be good on that one, because while he’s fairly sure that he’s going to survive this if he hangs in there, he would love to stop bleeding all over the place.

“Yes, they’re coming,” Aaron says. “I called them, and even if I hadn’t, someone’s sure to have heard the shots.” His voice cracks on the last word, and Alex would love nothing more than to smooth that agonized expression off his face, with his words or with his mouth. The first will have to do, since the jury’s out on whether he could accomplish the second without causing himself unspeakable agony.

“No’ y’r fault,” he says. “Did the righ’ thing.”

Alright. Not his most eloquent speech. But it’s getting hard to think clearly again.

Speaking of thinking.

“Your power’s r’ly cool,” he slurs. Aaron’s face is sliding in and out of focus, blurring and then solidifying in a way that makes him feel dizzy. “R’ly cool,” he says again, to clarify. “Y’shouldn’t hide it. ‘S cool.”

Aaron’s eyes are blurry now too. “Alex,” he whispers, and then his mouth works for a few seconds without sound coming out.

Or maybe sound is coming out. Maybe he just can’t hear it. 

His vision is going dark at the edges. The adrenaline is fading, the numbness oozing back in.

_ Sorry, Aaron. _

The last thing he sees are Aaron’s eyes. Beautiful eyes, scared eyes. He hopes he’ll get to see them again.

* * *

 

The hospital is too loud and too bright and too busy, with people calling out to each other and rushing around everywhere and trying to keep the world spinning. It seems like no one quite knows what’s going on, what that… well. He’s heard people calling it a ‘shared psychic experience’. Whatever the hell that means. But no one seems to understand just what it was or why it happened or who caused it, which is probably just as well. It’s also probably why the police didn’t ask him more than a few cursory questions before leaving him alone, apparently too busy to devote any resources to investigate a man being shot and nearly killed.

God.

He’s frightened. Very frightened. For Alex. Of the Monarch, what the Monarch might do next now that he’s still out there, injured but very much alive. Of himself, of the power he doesn’t use and doesn’t understand and yet is strong enough to force his pain onto a city of millions.

He’s pulled his walls around him tighter than ever, but still they feel fragile, liable to crumble at any moment. His head is pounding, and the hospital waiting room swims before his eyes. Though maybe that’s the film of tears that he can’t seem to blink away.

_ God. _

And this is how Theo finds him, slumped in a hard, plastic waiting room chair, all but dead to the world around him. She crouches in front of him and takes his hand gently in her own. Her eyes are dark and concerned and a little bit scared.

“I called every hospital until I found you,” she says. “Aaron, what happened?”

He looks at her. She would have known, of course, would have understood as soon as it happened. There are only five people in his life that have ever known his secret. His grandparents have been in the ground for years. His sister doesn’t talk to him anymore. Alex… Alex, they’ve told him, is in surgery. Theo is the last.

And she’s here.

He leans forward until his forehead is touching hers, and he tells her everything, spilling all the events of the past few hours in a quiet whisper until there is nothing left. Somewhere along the way, she begins to rub comforting circles into the palm of his hands, and he leans into the contact. 

“It’s not your fault,” she tells him. “Not your fault.”

And… yes, he knows that. Intellectually, he knows that. It was his finger on the trigger, but it was the Monarch who waved his hand and sent the bullets careening off course. It was bad luck and malicious intent, and neither of them were because of him.

He knows that. Regardless, having that confirmed by someone else is a relieving feeling.

Of course, telling the story causes everything else to catch up with him, including the visceral horror of being forced to hold a gun to his own head. He can still feel it, the cold and hateful muzzle pressed up against his forehead. His finger on the trigger, less than an inch and a thought away from ending it all.

He starts to shake, and Theo pulls up a chair and sits in it so that she can hold him better.

And this is how John Laurens finds them, his face flushed and his eyes frantic and his chest heaving. His phone is hanging loosely in his hand. He takes one look at them and apparently decides that they know everything about the situation, because he only waits about three seconds before demanding answers and explanations and “--where’s Alex, what the hell happened--” and Aaron really just doesn’t feel up to dealing with this.

And then Laurens stops, seeming to take in what’s in front of him. Aaron, still trembling violently, a few crusted bloodstains still on his hands because no matter how hard he scrubbed, he hadn’t been able to wash all the blood off. Theo, holding him tightly, sending a death glare to any who would dare disturb him. Namely, Laurens.

“Shit,” Laurens says, and plops himself down on the ground right in front of them. “Shit.” And he doesn’t say anything else.

The rest begin to trickle in, as Aaron expected. Mulligan, who takes one look at the scene and decides silence is the best possible course of action. Eliza and Maria, who come in hand in hand and don’t let go even as they settle into chairs across the hall. Angelica, and surprisingly, the youngest Schuyler, Peggy, who Aaron was sure was in college the next state over. And even more surprisingly, James Madison and Thomas Jefferson, the latter of which appears to be annoyed and confused as well, and the former of which offers a solemn, understanding nod, which Aaron gratefully returns. For a moment, they all exist in their own bubble of space, the hustle and bustle and commotion of the rest of the hospital ignored if not forgotten.

Theo stirs, shifts a little. “Do you want me to tell them?” she murmurs.

He nods wearily. He can’t bring himself to do this a second time.

So she does, the cadence of her voice gentle and soothing. He stares off into space, counts the tiles on the wall, tries to pretend that after this, he won’t have any more secrets from anyone. A lifetime of caution, of holding back at every possible moment, down the drain just like that.

When she is done, there is quiet.

For just a moment.

“What the  _ fuck _ ,” Jefferson demands, and turns to Madison. “Is  _ this _ why we’re here? Did you  _ know _ ?”

When Madison answers, he does not address Jefferson at all. “About Hamilton, yes,” he says, his eyes capturing Aaron’s. “I figured it out months ago, and confirmed it at the attack Thomas and I were caught up in. I only had suspicions about you.” He smiles grimly. “I thought you were too reserved not to be hiding something.”

“... That’s fair,” Aaron manages. Even he is surprised at the hoarseness of his voice. “But what does that make you, then?”

Madison shrugs, and then grimaces, rubbing at his shoulder. “In the interest of full disclosure, I can heal people--”

“James what the  _ fuck _ \--”

“--by taking their ailments onto myself. It’s far from convenient, I assure you.”

“--why the  _ actual fuck _ did you not tell me--”

“Of course, that means that hospitals are far from the most comfortable places for me, but…” He shrugs. “I thought I should come.”

Aaron sees the gesture for what it is, and as Jefferson has a conniption, he gives the man another grateful nod.

For another few moments, there is silence.

“Wow,” Laurens says, rubbing at his eyes. “Wow. Alright. Where the hell do we go from here?”

“Let’s look at the facts,” Angelica says. To all the world, she appears to be the most composed person here, but the crease between her eyebrows says otherwise. “Monarch knows who Alex is. He probably knows who we all are. Alex is… out of commission, and he knows that too. He even knows about Burr’s power.”

“So, what you’re saying is, we’re screwed?” Laurens shoots back, and everyone erupts into talking, noise and argument.

Aaron is honestly surprised that a doctor or a nurse or an orderly or someone hasn’t come over to tell them all to be quiet and to please hold their obviously suspicious meeting somewhere else.

“Okay! Hey, can I say something?” Peggy says, overriding everyone else. “Like, I know I don’t know what’s going on as well as everyone else because I haven’t been here and no one’s been telling me shit, but to me it looks like we’re just gonna have to make do with what we’ve got. Alex is gonna be fine, just like he always is, so now we’ve got to figure something out, okay? And yelling at each other isn’t going to help.”

Aaron studies her. She hasn’t been here, it’s true, but that doesn’t mean much; after all, he only found about everything himself earlier that day. And she makes an excellent point.

But the thing is, Alex isn’t always fine. Alex  _ hasn’t _ been fine, not lately. Lately, he has been pale and sick and stressed, and he’s been having panic attacks on fire escapes because he feels like he can’t go to his friends with his problems. He wonders how much of that these people know. Obviously not enough.

He wonders how much of that he should say. If any.

He really should speak up. Have some input. If ever there was a time to not stay silent and wait for the outcome, it is certainly now.

“What she said,” Mulligan agrees. “We’re all tired and frustrated, but let’s not leap at each other’s throats.”

“What the  _ fuck _ ,” Jefferson mutters, still staring at Madison like he’s some sort of alien creature.

And that’s when Aaron hears it.

“Burr.”

His name. Not unusual. But no one’s lips move as it is said, nor is it the voice of anyone present. He’s imagining it, then.

“ _ Burr. _ ”

Not imagining it. And he does know this voice.

He staggers to his feet, gently tearing himself from Theo’s grasp. “Bathroom,” he mutters in explanation, and makes his way down the hall, ignoring the concerned gazes he can feel on his back.

It’s a lie, of course, though a restroom visit certainly wouldn’t hurt, if only to check just how dead he looks. He continues down the hallway, not knowing where he’s going, only certain that there’s something he needs to do. He doesn’t hear the voice again, but he’s sure he wasn’t imagining it, because there would be no reason to imagine this person, of all people, speaking to him.

He comes to a door, closed tightly shut, no different from any of the other doors that line this corridor. There is nobody in sight, which he supposes is the only reason why he hasn’t been stopped. He stands there for a moment, thinking about how tired he is and how shaken, and how ridiculous it would be if he opened this door and walked randomly in on whoever’s inside.

He really should just go to the restroom.

The knob turns easily in his hands, and the door swings open without a sound. He is met with a pair of dark, weary eyes, and suddenly, his dreams of the past few weeks come rushing back to him. A copy of  _ Les Misérables  _ on the table and a blurry figure that speaks pressing words but never comes into focus. Messages that he promises to pass on but forgets as soon as he wakes, nothing left to him but a fading sense of urgency.

“It’s about damn time,” Lafayette says. Their voice is raspy and weak and barely audible, but no less confident, no less commanding. They look exhausted, like they might fall back asleep at any moment, but there is a lucidity about them that says otherwise.

“You tried to warn me,” Aaron says. It’s all he can think of, still reeling from the realization that if he had just remembered, he could have stopped this whole disaster form happening at all.

Lafayette nods. “Yes, I did,” they say. “Get in here and close the door. There is much to say but not much time.”

_ This day,  _ Aaron thinks,  _ is never ending.  _ And then he steps inside, the door shutting with a soft click behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for still being here, guys. On a side note, never take four AP classes in the same year unless you actually want to kill yourself.
> 
> Anyway, updates from here will be unpredictable and will likely have long gaps between them. But we're nearing the end, and this fic is getting finished, I swear.
> 
> Fun fact, this chapter is actually what inspired this whole fic in the first place. The original idea had Monarch forcing Aaron to shoot Alex point blank in a horrible parody of Weehawken, but Aaron ended up being a badass, so that was out. Close enough though, right?


End file.
